"I'm sorry," she said. At Anna’s words she seemed suddenly to stiffen. She’s a snob. She could not judge its direction, and began to move swiftly along the bookshelves, her hand running behind her across the spines of the calfbound volumes. “What do you mean?” she asked. 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 red and chapped.
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