“I suppose things have changed?” she said. 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. White, who had risen to greet her, proceeded with a formal, and from Anna’s point of view, a wholly unnecessary round of introductions. It was such an unexpected stroke of fortune. But this afternoon it discovered an unusual vein of irritability in her.
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