. There was still the pity of understanding in Ruth's eyes. It is at the lodge that we stay. Meantime the spinsters sought the dining room where tea was being served. 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. A deep silence, however, now prevailed, broken only by the tolling of the bells of Newgate and St. But De Maupassant—sheer off! Stick to Dickens and Thackeray and Hugo.
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