You are utterly baffling. There was a dreadful stifled groan, and she fell heavily upon the landing. Her heart full of dread, she dragged on it. 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’m ashamed to confess it, but I didn’t want the charge of you—a too close reminder of my own lost babe.
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