Accepting his glass from the butler, Gerald glanced at Mrs Sindlesham and saw a dimple peep out. 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. I snatched it up, pointed it blindly at him, and fired. He wasn't sure, but he thought he saw a faint shudder stir her shoulders.
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