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. I shall not part with you again. ‘It is not easy. . For her mother to betray her seemed inevitable, but the betrayal seemed worse than her fate. They give themselves airs, but so it is. ” “I do it—of my own free will,” said Ann Veronica, kissing his hand again.
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