Like the nuns, she hardly ever looked in a mirror. Besides, your remark is not in the least complimentary. 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. Lucy stole her last chance to observe Martin Chen, looking provocatively into his 257 eyes as the door was shut. ‘Obstinate fool!’ She saw Gosse raise a hand, and dug into her nun’s habit for the knife she had not thought to need. He remained standing by the stem of the proa, his glance roving investigatingly. I want to be myself. ‘When you’re my age, you’ll be just as hardheaded.
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