“I want,” he said, with a white hand outstretched, “to take you out to tea. What does it matter? I am not a pauper, Annabel. ‘No doubt accompanied by the latest crim con tales. 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. “What can one say?” she exclaimed. I’m convinced that much of Russell’s investigations are on wrong lines, unsound lines.
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