Easily I could have killed you. The hymnal lyrics had never stirred her; she had memorized and sung them parrotwise. She thought study would be better. At least I rather hoped I might spend my time chasing smugglers, which would have afforded some excitement. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. 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. " "Well, you'll have lots of time down there.
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