‘Bête. 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 poor young man!" sighed Angelina. She looked into his eyes, truly noticing their gray color for the first time. We two just love each other—the real, identical other—all the time. She found no ready reply to that, and he went on: “This music is the food of love. Stanley.
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