Hill. And if he didn’t, what was the good of seeing him? “I wish he was a woman,” she said, “then I could make him my friend. 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 fact of it is, and this absurd project of yours only brings it to a head, you have begun to get hold of some very queer ideas about what a young lady in your position may or may not venture to do.
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