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 was silent, and in the gloom of the dimly lit apartment he could not see her face. It was debauching, this—a devilish art which drew such strange allurements from a face and figure almost Madonna-like in their simplicity. If I'd not gone mad, they would have hanged me.
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