" The poor widow hung her head, and pressed her child closer to her breast. V. ‘Jacques, where are you hurt?’ But as she asked the question, she saw the wound. Every man in her life had betrayed her one way or another. Michelle smiled. It slid off flimsily. I offer you my assistance on certain terms. Ruth was at that stage where the absorption of facts is great, but where the mental digestion is not quite equal to the task. 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.
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