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. ’ ‘But why?’ asked Melusine, astonished, and somewhat overwhelmed by the other girl’s volubility. Monsieur could rely upon his special attention, and for the cooking—well, he had his customers, who came from their homes to him year after year. She paced restlessly to the door and back again, biting her tongue on the hot words begging to be uttered. A short way off in the fields he descried a sort of shed or cow-house, and thither he contrived to drag his weary limbs. O'Higgins followed him into the dining room. Of what was she thinking? She must rescue herself. She loped forward on unnaturally long legs and arms that swung loosely.
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