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. He stood with his hands in his pockets looking at Miss Klegg’s back. Her tone was icy. ‘I trust you are cursing Valade, and not Melusine. Following her lead, he fortified himself with a swallow of the excellent Madeira before responding. You shall have the spending of every penny of my money. ’ Kimble nodded. Cursing under his breath, Gerald moved swiftly across and dragged her away.
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