She had maintained a B in each subject except History, which she occasionally felt compelled to strive for A’s in, considering she had lived through most of it. When I have traversed the streets a houseless wanderer, driven with curses from every door where I have solicited alms, and with blows from every gateway where I have sought shelter,—when I have crept into some deserted building, and stretched my wearied limbs upon a bulk, in the vain hope of repose,—or, worse than all, when, frenzied with want, I have yielded to horrible temptation, and earned a meal in the only way I could earn one,—when I have felt, at times like these, my heart sink within me, I have drank of this drink, and have at once forgotten my cares, my poverty, my guilt. “How do you feel?” she asked. But we've got to cook up some kind of a story to protect her. I decline to waste a single second even in considering the ugly ones. Maggot and Edgeworth Bess.
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