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. It makes me want to be just everything I CAN be to you. ” She looked away from him. She had gone into Morgan's one afternoon for a bag of salt. The doctor sensed that his bolt had gone wrong, but he could not tell how or why. “Tell me,” she insisted, “why you look like that. . It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday.
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