” “Do you still love him?” “Just the opposite. There were two sisters, you know. ‘It—it is—nothing,’ she uttered jerkily. 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. He had his sections of the Siegfried map folded in his pocket, and he squatted up with his legs crossed like an Indian idol while she lay prone beside him and followed every movement of his indicatory finger.
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