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THE FOOD OF DEATH
Death was sick. But they brought him bread that the modern bakers
make, whitened with alum, and the tinned meats of Chicago, with a
pinch of our modern substitute for salt. They carried him into the
dining-room of a great hotel (in that close atmosphere Death breathed
more freely), and there they gave him their cheap Indian tea. They
brought him a bottle of wine that they called champagne. Death
drank it up. They brought a newspaper and looked up the patent
medicines; they gave him the foods that it recommended for invalids,
and a little medicine as prescribed in the paper. They gave him some
milk and borax, such as children drink in England.
Death arose ravening, strong, and strode again through the cities.
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