‘That’s just it. . 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. They seem to spend their time yawning and inspecting their neighbour’s dresses through those hateful glasses. I love you still, Anna, but life holds other things than the love of man for woman. Sydney sprang up. The inn was a military haunt. He might solve the riddle. It was a habit of his to talk to himself.
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