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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. Tell me about your island. Marvel," remarked Shotbolt. But here was new music, tender and kindly and whimsical, that first roved to and fro in the mind and then cuddled up in the heart. Humph. ’ ‘Ah, non?’ Her voice was neutral. ’ The lady’s face came round, a puzzled frown on her brow. Prudence twinkled at them, and reached out to pat Melusine’s hand. “Delusion!” “You can call it what you like,” she said. She slipped into bed and struggled to stay awake until she heard Cathy and Larry 14 stirring.
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