It reminded her viscerally of her subhuman status, stripped away of the pretenses of art, intellect, and nicety. " "Have you told him so?" she inquired, reproachfully. . \" Lucy said. ‘Yes, th-there it is,’ she uttered, stumbling a little over the words. “I thought you weren’t getting along so well with your mother these days. She turned with an effort. 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. At last she glanced at a little clock in the corner of the room, and sprang to her feet. A sinister thought edged in. Annabel seated herself in an easy chair and determined to wait for her sister’s return. We can love on a snow cornice, we can love over a pail of whitewash.
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