” “I care as a man cares only once in his life,” he answered promptly. She tried gentle words with him, beguiling perfumes, even slipped aphrodisiac tisanes into his soup. Anna leaned back with half closed eyes. He was engaged in detesting Manning and himself in almost equal measure. 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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