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. There’s something about you, a little flavor of Will, I suppose, that makes one feel—good luck about you and success. “Why do you need to go for a walk, Michelle?” Diane asked darkly. But don’t run away with the idea that I’m hanging out for a wife at last, because I’m not. He shuddered.
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