The terrors and anxieties of the last few months seemed to have fallen from her, to have passed away like an ugly dream, dismissed with a shudder even from the memory. The gun flew from his hand, clacking on the floor. I don’t see how they can be. 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 would never look squarely at these dream forms that mocked the social order in which she lived, never admit she listened to the soft whisperings in her ear. “Lucy, this isn’t funny anymore. She must get to the vestry. These cogitations were interrupted by the entrance of the doctor. But it looked as if the boy was not going to be of much use.
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