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. . But in his presence a wall of diffidence and timidity encompassed her. She loped forward on unnaturally long legs and arms that swung loosely. ‘That—that—why do you speak of him?’ ‘Because I feel you ought to know,’ Gerald said calmly, but rising and watching her closely, ‘that all your trouble may be in vain. But her heart kept on sinking. ‘You should be. They’re just all men, and no one is safe from scandal.
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