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. ‘Would you like me to enquire for your mystery lady, Gerald? I know the Comte and Comtesse de St Erme quite well. Immortal! You were in the beginning, and all the men in the world who have known what love is have worshipped at your feet. ” He made his voice very low and full, and looked closely into her face.
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