He took her fingers and lifted his eyes to hers. 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. The family always managed to make it home for supper, even though it was a dying custom. Wood's reception of the widow, who, at that moment, was ushered into the room by Winifred, was not particularly kind and encouraging. “You blithering idiot!” he exclaimed.
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