works. Shari regaled Lucy with soap operatic tales of boy-girl intrigues at the high school, then spoke of her aspirations for the future. Even her memories of he who had frequented her life for the longest period of years were worn and fading. 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. That is an evil place!” She cried. “Rather darker than most of them.
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