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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. So, let's think no more about it. All her life Martha had been there. Hitherto it had been qualified by her conception of all life as a compromise, by her new effort to be unexacting of life. ‘Rather thought I’d have to disarm you when you heard of it. uh. You seemed complete—without that. when I was five.
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