The acid of this incertitude had disintegrated his nerve; and in Canton had come the smash. 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. None of the things they said and did were altogether new to Ann Veronica, but now she got them massed and alive, instead of by glimpses or in books—alive and articulate and insistent. Not a moment is to be lost. Wood from pressing his suit long ago.
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