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. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. Her features were still slightly marked by the disorder alluded to in the description of her as a child,—but that was the only drawback to her beauty. “I cannot but conclude,” he said, “that your errand involved the recital to my wife of some trouble in which you find yourself. “These two haven’t been lovers for a long time. The day was unseasonably humid and dark, a thick fog having descended over manicured lawns.
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