The food of death. Death was sick, but they brought him bread that
the modern bakers make whitened with alum, and the tin meats of Chicago,
with a pinch of our modern substitute for salt. They carried him into the
dining room of the Great Hotel. In that close atmosphere, Death breathed more
freely, and there they gave him their cheap India 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 were 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 a rove ravening strong, and strode again through the cities. The
end of the food of Death.