“No way!” Michelle cried, and also looked around for pedestrian listeners. It was just such a bedroom as she would have chosen for 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. She was breathing hard, dragging for air, half in fright and half because the sudden effort had used up what little air she had managed to draw so briefly.
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