‘How she pouted, and tried to make out that she had been imposed upon. She almost laughed, but repressed her smile lest it seem cruel. 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. She's fine. ” She turned abruptly at right angles to the path they followed. CHAPTER XVII. But she disapproved more and more of her own mental austerity.
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