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. 112 Sheila needed an early riser: a girl around the house to help cook and clean and walk the dog. Ruth, without suspecting it, had fallen upon a fundamental truth: that each and every book fitted into the scheme of human moods and intelligence. His diminutive hand flew out from behind his back like a wounded bird.
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