’ She was silent for a space, and it was evident that this part of the story was still too painful to be recalled with ease. You’ll end up dead, that’s what. ” He glared at Martin. And Anna was conscious of a few moments of exquisite emotion. Jackson’s. 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.
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