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. ” “Two years ago,” she answered. Her thought spoke aloud. I suppose I was a little idiotic—I don’t think we either of us mentioned the future, but it was arranged that I should go the next afternoon and have tea with her. It was common name, so I was thrown off the scent. Using the shirt, she cleaned away the blood. You know—I worship you. ” She taunted.
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