‘Possibly,’ he said. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. ” “A little pit!” said Ann Veronica; “a little prison!” “It’s just as often a little refuge. ‘I understand you have not been in England very long,’ he said in English, noting that Madame raised her fan and lowered her gaze demurely.
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