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 isn’t exactly that,” Anna answered, “but to tell you the truth, I cannot bear to look upon myself as a rank failure. ’ ‘What matters it?’ cried Melusine impatiently. I went at last when I had barely a shilling in my purse to a dramatic agent. No—you shall come with me to Waterloo. I love the soles of your feet.
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