The moisture from the sea was constant, and she spent countless hours staring at the sea from the west tower, the rise and fall of waves. What Miss Miniver would have called the Higher Truth supervenes. And yet she knew it was not fair to call her a foolish girl. 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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