” Her urge to drink deeply of his blood was growing insane, ignited by what he had already donated. ” He followed up a line of thought. From the threshold she looked her accuser steadily and coldly in the face. "You hesitate—you are deceiving me. 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. It was Annabel’s. They don’t count, and I don’t care.
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