Sweeping medical shortages are hitting U.S. cities - and it could get worse 🌆📉

“𝘋𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘉𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘯 𝘧𝘰𝘰𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶 - 𝘸𝘦’𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘪𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘤 𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘞𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘞𝘢𝘳 2. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘦 3 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘱𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘸, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨.” - 𝘛𝘰𝘣𝘪𝘯 𝘚𝘮𝘪𝘵𝘩 [Main Logotype (Dark Green) | EMA]( Dear Reader, Imagine going to your local pharmacy…. The same place you've been going for years…. Оnlу to be told that they can't fill your subscription. More than that, your lіfе-saving medication is no longer available. 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚'𝒍𝒍 𝒈𝒆𝒕 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆. This nightmarish scenario seems impossible in a developed country like America. But the truth is - 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒔𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒐 𝒊𝒔 𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒏 𝒅𝒐𝒛𝒆𝒏𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝑨𝒎𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒄𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒆𝒔. It's gotten so bad experts at Johns Hopkins are nоw саllіng the shortage, "a mеdісаl emergency." But how did we gеt hеrе? How did America - the richest country in the world - run out of lіfе-saving mеdісіnе? Well, it's a supply chain issue. Very few Americans know this but… 90% of аll of the mеdісіnе in the United States comes from two countries - China and India, with the bulk of it coming from China. Meaning… as hostilities between China and the U.S. have continued to escalate… China has hinted that it will continue to pull back exports on critical medicines. And the thing is... [it's about to gеt a lot worse](. Because China controls more than just critical mеdісаl treatments. Tоdау, we rely on China for dozens of key resources - from rare earth metals to car components. And if they cut оff those supply chains… 𝒘𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒃𝒆 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒕 𝒂 𝒍𝒐𝒕 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒅𝒆𝒗𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒎𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒍 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒆𝒔. "As if you didn't k, Chris. Gawsh, you should 'ave seen her feathers waggin' at the Union jess . Fawther's took wiv the jumps, I hear, and Alb's gone to the Pav to give her hair. Oh, the fine gentleming—I seed his poor toes through his bloomin' boots this night, s'welp me Gawd I did." The admission was received with a shout of laughter from the window above, w a red-haired girl leaned pensively upon the rail of a broken balcony. The speaker, in her turn, moved away with a youth who asked her, with much unnecessary emphasis, "what the 'ell she had to do with Albey's feet and why she couldn't Chris Denham alone." "If I ain't 'xactly gawn on Russian ter myself, wot's agen Albey a-doin' of it," he asked authoritatively. " the lidy alone and don't arst no questions. They say as the old man is took with spasms round at the Union. S'welp me if Albey ain't in luck—at his time of too." He winked at the girl, who had put her arm boldly round his waist, and marched on with the proud consciousness that his cleverness had not failed to make a just impression. The red-haired girl of the pensive face still gazed dreamily down the court and her head inclined a little toward the earth as though she were listening for the sound of a footstep. Not the dreamer of dreams in that den of squalor, this Alban Kennedy was her idol to-night as he had been the idol of fifty of her class since he came to live among them. What cared she for his ragged shoes or the frayed collar about his neck? Did not the whole community admit him to be a very aristocrat of aristocrats, a diamond of class in a quarry of ashes, a figure at once mysterious and heroical? And this knight of the East, what irony led him away with that white-faced Pole, Lois Borisk? What did he see in her? What was she to him? The pensive head was withdrawn sadly from the window at last. Silence fell in the dismal court. The Russians who had been breathing fire and vengeance were eating smoked sturgeon and drinking vodki. A man played the fiddle to them and some danced. After , has something else than the story of wrong to tell us sometimes. The boy and the girl halted toher by one of the lights at the corner of the Commercial Road and t they spoke of the strange confession which had just fen from Paul Borisk's lips. Little Lois, white-faced as a mime at the theatre, her black hair tousled and unkempt, her eyes shining almost with the brightness of fever, declared her heart to the gentle Alban and implored him for God's sake to take her from London and this pitiful . He, as discreet as she was rash, pitied her from his heart, but would not admit as much. "If I could speak Polish, Lois—but you k I can't," he said. "Bread and salt, that's about what I should in your country—and perhaps be able to count the nails in the soles of my boots. What's the good of telling me about it? I saw that your father was angry, but you people are always angry. And, little girl, he does his best . for that—he would er anything on earth than you." "I don't believe it," said the girl, tossing her head angrily, "what's he care about anything but that ole machine of his which he says they stole from him? Ten hours have I been sewing to-day, Alb, and ten it will be to-morrow. Truth, dear, upon my soul. What's father care so long as the kettle boils and he can read the papers? And you're no better—you'd take me away if you were—right away from to the gardens w he couldn't find me, and no one but you would ever find me any more. That's what you'd do if you were as I want you to be. But you ain't, Alb—you'll care for any girl— will you, Alb, dear?" She clutched his arm and pressed cly to him, regardless of passers-by so accustomed to love-making on the pavements that neither man nor woman turned a head because of it. Alban Kennedy, however, was frankly ashamed of the whole circumstance, and he pushed the girl away from him as though her very touch ended. "Look , Lois, that's nonsense—let's go and see something, let's go into the Empire for an hour. Your father will be right when he's had a glass or two of vodki. You k he's always like this when t's been s from Warsaw. Let's go and hear a turn and then you can tell me what you want me to do." They walked on a little way, she clinging to his arm timidly and looking up often into his eyes as though for some expression of that affection she hungered for unceasingly. The "Court" had d them for lovers long ago, but the women declared that such an aristocrat as Alban Kennedy would look twice before he put his neck into Paul Borisk's matrimonial halter. "A lot of good the Empire will do me to-night," Lois exclaimed . "I feel more like dancing on my own grave than seeing other people do it. What with father's temper and your cold shoulder, Alb—" "Lois, that's unfair, dear; you k that I am sorry. But what can I do, what can any one do for men who talk such nonsense as those fellows in that h? 'Seize London and the Government'—you said it was that, didn't you?—well, they're much more likely to brain fever and wake up in the hospital. That's what I sh tell your father if he asks me. And, Lois, how can you and I talk about anything when I haven't a shilling to c my own and your father 't let you out of his sight lest he should want something. It will be different —bad things always are. I sh make a fortune myself some day—I'm certain of it as though I had the already in the . People who make fortunes always k that they are going to do so. I sh make a lot of and then come back —just my little Lois sewing at the window, the same old dirty court, the same ragged fellows talking about sacking London, the same faces everyw—but Lois unchanged and waiting for me— isn't it that, dear, 't you be unchanged when I come back ?" They stood for an in the shadow of a shuttered shop and, leaping up at his question, she lifted warm red lips to his own—and the girl of seventeen and the boy of mature twenty kissed as ardently as lovers ly sworn to eternal devotion. "I do love you, Alb," she cried, "I sh love any other man—straight, my dear, though t ain't much use in a-telling you. Oh, Alb, if you meant it, you wouldn't me in this awful place; you'd take me away, darling, w I could see the fields and the gardens. I'd come, Alb, as true as death—I'd go this night if you arst me, straight away to come back—if it were to sleep on the hard road and beg my bread from house to house—I'd go with you, Alb, as heaven hears me, I'd be an honest to you and you should regret the day. What's to keep us, Alb, dear? Oh, we're fine rich, ain't we, both of us, you with your fifteen shillings from the yard and me with nine and six from the fronts. Gawd's truth, Rothschild ain't nothink to you and me, Alb, when we've the mind to play the lidy and gentleman. Do you k that I lay abed some nights and try to think as it's a kerridge and pair and you a-sittin' beside of me and nothink round us but the green fields and the blue sky, and nothink more to do but jess ride on with your hand in mine and the sun to shine upon us. Lord, what a thing it is to wake up then, Alb, and 'ear the cer cryin' five and see my father like a white ghost at the door. And that's wot's got to go on to the end—you k it is; you put me 'cause you think it'll me, same as you put Chris Denham when you danced with her at the Institoot B. You 't love no girl truly, Alb—it isn't in you, my dear. You're born above us and we sh for it, not none of us as I'm alive to-night." She turned away her head to hide the tears gathering in her black eyes, while Alban's answer to her was a firm pressure upon the little white hand he held in his own and a quicker step upon the crowded pavement. Perhaps he understood that the child spoke the truth, but of this he could not be a wise judge. His father had been a poor East End parson, his mother was the daughter of an obstinate and flinty Sheffield steel factor, who first disowned her for marrying a curate and then went through the court as a protest against American competition. So far Alban k himself to be an aristocrat—and yet how could he for that among that very company of Revolutionaries he had so lately quitted t were sons of men whose nobility was older than Russia herself. That he understood so much singled him out as a youth of strange gifts and abnormal insight—but such, indeed, he was, and as such he k himself to be. "I 't quarrel with you, Lois, though I see that you wish it, dear," he said , "you k I don't care for Chris Denham and what's the good of talking about her. Let's go and cheer up—I'm sure we can do with a bit and that's the plain truth, isn't it, Lois?" He squeezed her arm and drew her cr to him. At the Empire they found two gery seats and watched a Japanese acrobat balance himself upon five hoops and a ladder. A lady in far from immaculate evening dress, who sang of a flowing river which possessed eternal and immutable qualities chiefly concerned with love and locks and unswerving fidelity, appealed to little Lois' sentiment and she looked up at Alb whe the refrain recurred as much as to say, "That is how I should love you." So many other couples about them were squeezing hands and cuddling waists that no one took any notice of their affability or thought it odd. A drunken sailor behind them kept asking the company with maudlin reiteration what time the last train left for Plymouth, but beyond crying "hush" nobody rebuked him. In truth, the young people had come t to make love, and when the lights were turned down and the curtain of the biograph revealed, the place seemed paradise itself. Lois crept very c to Alban during this part of the entertainment, nor did he repulse her. Moments t were undeniably when he had a tenderness toward her; moments when she lay in his embrace as some pure gift from this haven of darkness and of evil, a fragile helpless figure of a girlhood he idolized. Then, perchance, he loved her as Lois Borisk hungered for love, with the supreme devotion, the abject surrender of his manhood. No meaner taint of passion inspired these outbreaks, nor might the most critical student of character have found them blameworthy. Alban Kennedy's rule of defied scrutiny. His ignorance was often that of a child, his faith that of a trusting woman—and yet he had traits of strength which would have done no dishonor to those in the highest places. Lois loved him and t were hours when he responded wholly to her love and yet had no more thought of evil in his response than of doing any of those forbidding things against which his dead mother had schooled him so tenderly. were two little outcasts from the civilized world—why should they not creep c toher for that sympathy and loving kindness which destiny had denied them. "I darsn't be late to-night, Alb," Lois said when the biograph was over and they had left the h, "you k how father was. I must go back and his supper." "Did he rey mean that about the copper mines and his invention?" Alban asked her in his practical way, and added, "Of course I couldn't understand much of it, but I think it's pretty awful to see a man crying, don't you, Lois?" "Father does that often," she rejoined, "often when he's alone. I might not be in the world at , Alb, for he thinks of me. Some one robbed him, you k, and just lately he thinks he's found the man in London. What's the good of it —who's goin' to help a poor Pole his rights back? Oh, yer bloomin' law and , a lot we sees of you in Thrawl Street, so help me funny. That's what I tell father when he talks about his rights. We'll take ours with us to Kingdom come and nobody k much about 'em when we t. A sight of good it is cryin' out for them in this world, Alb— ain't it, dear?" Alban was in the habit of taking questions very ly, and he took this one just as though she had put it in of good faith. That's why I've been telling people to prepare for these shortages for months… [I саll it "the unwinding" of America.]( I put together an entire research presentation detailing exactly what to do in advance of this "unwinding" event. It names 3 steps any American can take tоdау - regardless of whether you have $500 or $500,000 in the bаnk. [Just сlісk hеrе if you want more info.]( In the meantime, keep your eyes ореn. Don't gеt complacent. Things like mеdісіnе may not always be there. We can't afford to think of anything as "promised." To Your Suссеss, Tobin Smith Chief Analyst, 𝑇𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑠𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑚𝑖𝑡𝑦 𝐼𝑛𝑣𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟 The orator was not eloquent; but he had told a story and listened with respect. When he paused and looked upward it seemed to many that a light of justice shone upon his haggard face while the tears rolled unwiped down his ragged jerkin. His lank, unkempt hair, caught by the draught from the doors at the far end of the h, streamed behind him in grotesque profusion. His hands were clenched and his lips compressed. That which he had told to the sea of questioning faces below him was the story of his . The which he had uttered with an oath upon his lips was the of the man who had deprived him of riches and of liberty. When he essayed to add a woman's and to speak of the wrongs which had been done her, the power of utterance left him in an and he stood t gasping, his eyes toward the light which none but he could see; a prayer of gratitude upon his lips because he had found the man and would repay. Look down upon this audience and you sh see a heterogeneous assembly such as London alone of the cities can show you. The h is a crazy building enough, not a hundred yards from the Commercial Road at Whitechapel. The time is the spring of the year 1903—the hour is eight o'clock at night. Ostensibly a meeting to discuss the s which had come that day from the chiefs of the Revolutionaries in Warsaw, the discussion had been diverted, as such discussions invariably are, to a recital of personal wrongs and of individual resolutions—even to mad talk of the conquest of the world and the crowning of King Anarchy. And to this the wild Asiatics and the sad-faced Poles listened alike with rare murmurs and odd contortions of limbs and body. Let Paul Borisk of Minsk be the orator and they k that the red flag would fly. But before has Borisk been seen in tears and the spectacle enchained their attention as no mere rhetoric could have done. A man's confession, if it be honest, must ever be a profoundly interesting document. Borisk, the Pole, did not hold these people spellbound by the vigor of his denunciation or the rhythmic chant of his anger. He had begun in a quiet voice, welcoming the s from Warsaw and the account of the assassination of the Deputy Governor Lebinsky. From that he passed to the old question, why does authority remain in any city at ? This London that sleeps so securely, does it ever awake to remember the unnumbered hosts which pitch their tents in the courts and eys of Whitechapel? "Put rifles into the hands of a hundred thousand men who can be found to-night," he had said, "and w is your British Government to-morrow? The police—they would be but as dead s under the feet of a mighty multitude. The soldiers! Friends," he put it to them, "do you ever ask yourselves how many soldiers t are in the barracks of London to-night and what would happen to them if the people were armed? I say to you that the house would f as a house of cards; the rich would flee; the poor would reign. And you who k this for a truth, what do you answer to me? That London harbors you, that London feeds you—aye, with the food of swine in the kennels of the dogs." Men nodded their heads to this and some of the women tittered behind their ragged shawls. They had heard it so often—the grand assault by numbers; the rifle shots ringing out in the sleeping streets by Piccadilly; the sack of Park Lane; the flight of the Government; the downf of what is and the establishment of what might be. If they believed it possible, they had sense enough to remember that a sacked city of amnesty would be the poorest tribute to their own sagacity. At least London did not flog them. Their wives and sisters were not dragged to the police stations to be bruty lashed at the command of any underling they had ended. Applause for Borisk and his sound and fury might be interpreted as a concession to their vanity. "We could do this," they seemed to say; "if we forbear, let London be grateful." As for Borisk, he had talked so many times in such a strain that a sudden change in voice and matter surprised them beyond words. What had happened to him, then? Was the fellow mad when he began to speak of the copper mines and the days of slavery he had spent tin? A hush fell upon the h when the demagogue struck this unaccustomed note; rude gas flares shed an ugly yellow glow upon faces which everyw asked an unspoken question. What had copper mines to do with the s from Warsaw, and what had they to do with this assembly? , however, it came to the people that they were listening to the story of a wrong, that the pages of a drama were being unfolded before them. In glowing words the speaker painted the miner's and that of the stokers who kept the furnaces. What a living hell that labor had been. T were six operations in refining the copper, he said, and he had served years of apprenticeship to each of them. Hungry and faint and weary he had kept watch half the night at the furnace's door and returned to his at dawn to see white faces half buried in the ragged beds of his house or to hear the child he loved crying for the food he could not bring. And in those night watches the idea had come to him. he said, "the first conception of the Meltka furnace was mine. The white heat of the night gave it to me; a child's cry, 'thou art my father and thou wilt me,' was my inspiration. Some of you will have heard that t are smelting works to-day w the sulphurous acid, which copper pyrites when it is roasted, is used for the manufacture of sulphuric acid. That was my discovery. Many have claimed it since, but the Meltka furnace was mine—as God is in heaven it was mine. Why, then, do I stand among you wanting bread, I who should own the riches of kings? My friends, I will tell you. A devil stole my secret from me and has traded it in the markets of the world. I trusted him. I was poor and he was rich. 'Sell for me and share my gains,' I said. His honor would be my protection, I thought, his kledge my security. Ah, God, the chiefs of the Revolutionaries in Warsaw, the discussion had been diverted, as such discussions invariably are, to a recital of personal wrongs and of individual resolutions—even to mad talk of the conquest of the world and the crowning of King Anarchy. And to this the wild Asiatics and the sad-faced Poles listened alike with rare murmurs and odd contortions of limbs and body. Let Paul Borisk of Minsk be the orator and they k that the red flag would fly. But before has Borisk been seen in tears and the spectacle enchained their attention as no mere rhetoric could have done. A man's confession, if it be honest, must ever be a profoundly interesting document. Borisk, the Pole, did not hold these people spellbound by the vigor of his denunciation or the rhythmic chant of his anger. He had begun in a quiet voice, welcoming the s from Warsaw and the account of the assassination of the Deputy Governor Lebinsky. From that he passed to the old question, why does authority remain in any city at ? This London that sleeps so securely, does it ever awake to remember the unnumbered hosts which pitch their tents in the courts and eys of Whitechapel? "Put rifles into the hands of a hundred thousand men who can be found to-night," he had said, "and w is your British Government to-morrow? The police—they would be but as dead s under the feet of a mighty multitude. The soldiers! Friends," he put it to them, "do you ever ask yourselves how many soldiers t are in the barracks of London to-night and what would happen to them if the people were armed? I say to you that the house would f as a house of cards; the rich would flee; the poor would reign. And you who k this for a truth, what do you answer to me? That London harbors you, that London feeds you—aye, with the food of swine in the kennels of the dogs." Men nodded their heads to this and some of the women tittered behind their ragged shawls. They had heard it so often—the grand assault by numbers; the rifle shots ringing out in the sleeping streets by Piccadilly; the sack of Park Lane; the flight of the Government; the downf of what is and the establishment of what might be. If they believed it possible, they had sense enough to remember that a sacked city of amnesty would be the poorest tribute to their own sagacity. At least London did not flog them. Their wives and sisters were not dragged to the police stations to be bruty lashed at the command of any underling they had ended. Applause for Borisk and his sound and fury might be interpreted as a concession to their vanity. "We could do this," they seemed to say; "if we forbear, let London be grateful." As for Borisk, he had talked so many times in such a strain that a sudden change in voice and matter surprised them beyond words. What had happened to him, then? Was the fellow mad when he began to speak of the copper mines and the days of slavery he had spent tin? A hush fell upon the h when the demagogue struck this unaccustomed note; rude gas flares shed an ugly yellow glow upon faces which everyw asked an unspoken question. What had copper mines to do with the s from Warsaw, and what had they to do with this assembly? , however, it came to the people that they were listening to the story of a wrong, that the pages of a drama were being unfolded before them. In glowing words the speaker painted the miner's and that of the stokers who kept the furnaces. What a living hell that labor had been. T were six operations in refining the copper, he said, and he had served years of apprenticeship to each of them. Hungry and faint and weary he had kept watch half the night at the furnace's door and returned to his at dawn to see white faces half buried in the ragged beds of his house or to hear the child he loved crying for the food he could not bring. And in those night watches the idea had come to him. "Friends," he said, "the first conception of the Meltka furnace was mine. The white heat of the night gave it to me; a child's cry, 'thou art my father and thou wilt me,' was my inspiration. Some of you will have heard that t are smelting works to-day w the sulphurous acid, which copper pyrites when it is roasted, is used for the manufacture of sulphuric acid. That was my discovery. Many have claimed it since, but the Meltka furnace was mine—as God is in heaven it was mine. Why, then, do I stand among you wanting bread, I who should own the riches of kings? My friends, I will tell you. A devil stole my secret from me and has traded it in the markets of the world. I trusted him. I was poor and he was rich. 'Sell for me and share my gains,' I said. His honor would be my protection, I thought, his kledge my security. Ah, God, what reward had I? He d me to the police and their lashes cut the flesh from my body. I lay three years in the prison at Irkutsk and five at Saghalin. The white faces were turned to the earth they sprang from, my son was heard at the foot of God's throne when they bade me go and set my foot in Poland no more. This I k even in that island of blood and death. Letters had come to me from my dear ; the Committee had kept me informed even t at the end of the earth. I k that my had perished; that of my family, my daughter Lois alone remained to me; I k that the days of the tyranny were numbered and that I, even I, might yet have my work to do. Did they keep me from Poland? I tell you that I lived t three years in spite of them, searching for the man who should answer me. Maxim Gogol, w had he himself? The tale at the mines was that he had gone to America, sold his interest and embarked in ventures. I wrote to our friends in York and they k nothing of such a man. I had search made for him in Berlin, in Vienna and Paris. The years were not too swift for my patience, but the harvest went ungatd. I came to London and bent my neck to this yoke of starvation and eternal night. I have worked sixteen hours a day in the foul holds of ships that I might husband my desire and repay. Friends, ten days ago in London I passed the man I am seeking and k him for my own. Maxim Gogol may hide from me no more. With these eyes have I seen him—ah, God give me strength to speak of it—with these eyes have I seen him, with these hands have I touched him, with this voice have I accused him. He lives and he is mine—to suffer as I have suffered, to repay as I have paid—until the eternal justice of God sh decide between us both." T would have been loud applause in any other assembly upon the conclusion of such an impassioned if verby conventional an harangue; but these Asiatics who heard Paul Borisk, who watched the tears stream down his hollowed cheeks and beheld the face uplifted as in ecstasy, had no applause to give him. Had not they also suffered as he had suffered? What wrong of his had not been, in some phase or other, a wrong of theirs? How many of them had lost children well beloved, had kn starvation and the sweater's block? Such sympathy as they had to give was rather the cold systematical pity of their which ever made the individual's cause its own. This unkn Maxim Gogol, if he were indeed in London so much the worse for him. The chosen hand would strike him down when his hour had come—even if it were not the hand of the man he had wronged. In so far as Borisk betrayed intense emotion before them, it may be that they despised him. What nation had been made by tears? How would weeping put bread into the children's mouths? This was the sentiment expressed by a lank-haired Pole who followed the speaker. Let Paul Borisk write out his case and the Committee would consider it, he said. If Maxim Gogol were adjudged guilty, let him be punished. For himself he would spare neither man, woman, or child sheltered in the house of the oppressor. A story had been told to them of an unusual . He did not wholly regret that Paul Borisk had not made a fortune, for, had he done so, he would not be a brother among them to-night. Let him be assured of their sympathy. The Committee would hear him when and w he wished. T were other speakers in a similar mood, but the immediate interest in the dramatic recital quickly evaporated. A little desultory talk was followed by the serving of vodki and of cups of steaming cee to the women. The younger people at the far end of the h, who had been admitted to hear the music which should justify the gathering, grew weary of waiting and pushed their way into the street. T they formed little companies to speak, not of the strange entertainment which had been provided for them, but of commonplace affairs—the elder women of infantile sufferings, the girls of the songs they had heard on Saturday at the Aldgate Empire or of the shocking taste in feathers of more favored rivals. But and t a black-eyed daughter of Poland or a fair-haired Circassian edged away discreetly from the company and was as warily followed by the necessary male. The dirty street caught snatches of music-h melodies. Windows were ed above and wit exchanged. A voice, that of a young girl evidently, asked what had become of the Hunter, and to this another voice replied , as though ly satisfied, that Alban Kennedy had gone down toward the High Street with Lois Borisk. [Small logotype (EMA)]( ExpertModernAdvice.com is sending this newsletter on behalf Inception Media, LLC. Inception Media, LLC appreciates your comments and inquiries. Please keep in mind, that Inception Media, LLC are not permitted to provide іndivіdualіzed financial advіse. This email is not fіnаncіаl аdvіcе and any іnvеstmеnt decision you make is solely your responsibility. Feel frее to contact us toll frее Domestic/International: +17072979173 Mon–Fri, 9am–5pm ET, or email us support@expertmodernadvice.com. 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