Anna turned round with a start, which was almost of guilt, the poker still in her hand. 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. ‘How do you know?’ ‘Exactly,’ pounced Roding bitterly. She reflected upon that with a thrill of terror that was also, somehow, in some faint remote way, gleeful.
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