The tears were welling over now, but her voice was steady. I will always think of you with fondness, no matter what. The ink, contained in a grimy bottle unearthed in the outhouse, was old, and made blotches as soon as it touched the paper. Nevertheless it was overwhelming. Montague Hill do not interest me in the least. 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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