![]() "And I got it, too, you bastard," she muttered. She'd cursed and screamed at him, telling him to save her bed, he'd get his doss money, telling him she'd earned it and drunk it three times over that day. The landlord's man had spotted her there, asked for his fourpence, and turned her out when she couldn't supply it. Two hours ago, she'd been sitting in the kitchen of a doss-house on Thrawl Street, penniless. ![]() Polly dipped her hand into her coat pocket and felt for the coins there. In the distance, the clock at Christ Church struck two, its resonant chime muffled in the thickening fog. She coughed, lost her grip on the bottle, and swore as it smashed. Swaying drunkenly in the darkness of an alley, she raised a bottle to her lips and drained it. It made her feel better than any man ever had. ![]() It stilled the aching in her rotten teeth and numbed the slicing pains she got every time she took a piss. It took away her hunger and chased the chill from her joints. Polly Nichols, a Whitechapel whore, was profoundly grateful to gin. ![]()
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