‘What you can do, Lucy, rather than make enquiries, is introduce me to this comte and comtesse. Her prevailing effect was one of quiet and complete assurance, as though she knew all about everything, and was only restrained by her instinctive delicacy from telling what she knew. To her chagrin, he ignored her, and turned a venomous eye on his betrothed. The next moment, however, he was picked up, and set upon his feet by a person who, having witnessed the accident, flew across the road to his assistance. There was plenty of sweet water. 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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