There was a lapse of time, an interval of blackness; then he found his hand in hers and she was leading him at a run up the side of the mountain. It took my breath away. Finally she decided that even for an hotel she must look round, and that meanwhile she would “book” her luggage at Waterloo. 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.
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