Long ago. To escape one phase of loneliness she had plunged into another, so vast that her courage sometimes faltered. “Thank Heaven, they are bringing the hors d’oeuvres. 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 replied. “He will find it difficult no doubt to alter his style of living,” she said. “Then I don’t take this as final. Lord, what a state I was in! Night after night I sat there, I watched her come in, I watched her go.
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