As he returned to the table, he put his finger to his nose; and, though he said nothing, he thought he had a much better chance of winning his wager. "Let me go," cried Winifred. “By Jove!” he exclaimed. ‘Tell me about the convent? Were you happy there? They were kind to you, the nuns?’ ‘Oh, but yes. 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. Why did he imagine she was making this journey to England? She feigned interest.
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