So, you see—’ ‘Do not say any more,’ Melusine uttered, flinging away and moving to the fireplace. ‘But you cannot expect that we will any of us remain altogether quiet,’ objected Melusine. 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. Spurlock knew exactly what he was doing, however: speculative mischief, to see how she would act.
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