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The rest she meant to keep for her immediate necessities. 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. The well of tears in her eyes was dry. modern. She, perhaps, displayed herself rather consciously as a fine person unduly limited. “Gods,” she said, at last, “I’ve done it this time!” “Well!” She took up the neat morocco purse, opened it, and examined the contents. Five hours later she tiptoed down the hall and paused at the threshold of what they now called his study.
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