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. She wanted his attention, but so did everyone else. I know not who you are; and, as I cannot discern your face, I may be doing you an injustice. Lucy’s solos were exquisite in their precision and expression. Annabel seated herself in an easy chair and determined to wait for her sister’s return.
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