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She was ashamed of herself for the simple gladness she felt wash over her as the infant’s screams ended. 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. You go home and wait a century, Vee, and then try again. A corner could hold the promise of a shelf of dainty crystals, volcanic ices of rainbow colors, or figurines of saints sculpted from horn and bone reenacting their martyrdoms on delicate miniature wooden stages. ” “Oh, no, please, no!” She reeled in shock and started 226 to back away from the open crypt.
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