You must live for me. "Won't you take these?" For a space he merely stared at her, perhaps wondering if she were real. ” Anna drummed impatiently with her fingers against the arm of her chair. 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 find it very hard to write this letter.
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