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. In privacy he read and reread it a dozen times, and eventually destroyed it by fire. “What’s the objection?” “I suppose she ought to know?” said Gwen to her mother, trying to alter the key of the conversation. But I am sick of tearing up letters and hopeless of getting what I have to say better said. “I—I am sorry—I didn’t explain. The lady reseated herself, watching him expectantly. “That’s what we narcs have to do. But one must disguise oneself.
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