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. His glance swept up again and found her staring at him with much of her usual defiance, if a touch less of her customary assurance. Gerald saw her eyes change as she recognised him. He may not be able to eat tin-cans, but he tries to.
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