" "Impossible!" rejoined his mother. 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. Don’t ask me how. ” She changed the subject abruptly. Run away now, please. The small bed’s hospital corners had been put into disarray by Michelle’s crying fit. “It may be more difficult than you think,” she said. I thought it was a mirror at the first, for it was so very like myself.
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