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. She could not look at him through an interval that seemed to her a vast gulf of time. ‘Only you made me lose my temper, and—’ ‘I made you do so? Pah!’ Gerald at last succeeded in ripping the handkerchief from her grasp, and swiftly held it to her neck, oblivious to her now bloodied fingers clawing at his hand. The newcomer stopped short upon the threshold. His gangling body was clothed in rusty twill trousers and a long black seersucker coat, buttoned to the throat, around which ran a collar which would have marked him the world over as a man of the Word. Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. Drummond,” he continued, looking across at his vis-à-vis, “we look to you to give expression to our sentiments.
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