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 have you procured these things?" asked Thames, in the utmost astonishment. "With me?" said Thames. ‘I must get a handkerchief. ” Lucy appeared and appraised him briefly, nonchalantly. Pramlay received them in the pretty chintz drawing-room, which opened by French windows on the trim garden, with its croquet lawn, its tennis-net in the middle distance, and its remote rose alley lined with smart dahlias and flaming sunflowers.
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