" "Who told you this is his portrait?" demanded Trenchard. He sprung out of the driver’s side and ran to her door. She pulled, he rose to his feet. That day Gerald had brought her to this excessively careful house, where she had felt very much alone and very unlike herself. 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.
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