You have taken upon your shoulders the burden of her misdeeds. She could still smell the now familiar scent of him on the girl's body in the makeshift grave. They'll be back soon enough—or not at all. ‘It is not your affair. 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. . The dress came to her only too manifestly unwashed from its former wearer; even the under-linen they gave her seemed unclean.
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