They don’t now. I worshipped her and subdued myself. 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. “Not for these things, O Ann Veronica, have you revolted,” it said; “and this is not your appropriate purpose. "Your hesitation convinces me he does," replied the widow. “You are not boring me,” she said, “but I would rather talk of something else.
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