In Manhattan, once every week, to a grubby little room on Eighth Avenue went a check from the city relief bureau. The old couple who lived there were always waiting. First thing they did when the check arrived was to buy a bottle of gin. Then they sat on the stairs, guzzled gin, laughed and howled and slapped each other on the back. Last fortnight, after one of their bouts, the tipsy husband tried to light the gas heater. While he fumbled with the matches, gas flooded the room, brought Death to the...
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