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. The hand which the man had been holding hung limp and nerveless at her side. To these a heavy wooden apparatus was attached, which could be raised or lowered at pleasure by pullies. Her amusement fled and she stared at him, as a slow thump began beating at her breast. No one is safe. A woman indeed this to love and be loved, beautiful, graceful, gay. ‘Beg pardon, miss, but I’m told as how—’ She broke off, her eyes widening, her jaw dropping open. She drifted, via Theobald’s Road, obliquely toward the region about Titchfield Street.
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