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. CHAPTER XXVII His idea, cleverly planned, was to shatter her resistance, to confound her suddenly by striking her mind with words which would rob her coherent thought. She longed to enjoy human food as he did. ” “Thanks to me,” he repeated, puzzled. She located her foster family. His tone was rough, almost threatening. Ruth returned to the table.
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