” “You are going to sing in London?” he said quietly. ’ The lady uttered a scornful sound. “Anna,” he cried eagerly. 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. All that was needed to complete the simile was that the girl should burst into song. ‘My dear boy, your loyalty is misplaced. It’s not like we’re getting married. Montague Hill. It seemed to them they could never have been really alive before, but only dimly anticipating existence.
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