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 found herself alone in the train asking herself what she must do next, and trying not to think of herself as cut off from home or any refuge whatever from the world she had resolved to face. She shuddered with relief as it seemed that Mike and Shari were still out and about. The cultivated indifference, which was part of the armour of his little world fell away from him.
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