“Perhaps that is only sleeping,” he said. He was bewildered. 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. She had very few clear memories before a particular day in the library, when they had finished one of her first reading lessons. ‘I am nine-and-twenty,’ he answered. Through her door curtain she could see the light from the study lamp. “I think that I know very well what I am saying,” she answered.
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