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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 had turned into the street, on the opposite side of which were the flats where Anna lived. “Oh, theories! Being in love is a fact. I will permit you to rescue me. There was no reason why she shouldn’t be his restrained and dignified friend. ” “Oh, it wasn’t that. Wood having laid hold of the canvass-bag. Tell me how you are earning your living here, Anna—typewriting, or painting, or lady’s companion?” “I think,” Anna said, “that the less you know about me the better.
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