” Annabel rose slowly to her feet, walked to the door as though to see that it was shut, and came back with slow lagging footsteps. ’ ‘What sort of “down on your luck”?’ asked Alderley. 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. “Annabel! Why, what on earth have you been doing to yourself, child?” she exclaimed.
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