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. " At the sound of his voice every vestige of colour fled from Winifred's cheeks, and the work upon which she was engaged fell from her hand. Wood. She cried out his name in ecstasy. She felt a hysterical desire to strike him, to burst out crying, to blurt out the whole miserable truth. Or shall I ask Colonel Anson for a few hints?” “For Heaven’s sake no,” she declared. "I have one inquiry more to make of you, Sir," said the stranger, as soon as he had conquered his displeasure, "and I will then trouble you no further.
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