She told the porter to take it to the booking-office, and it was only after a disconcerting moment or so that she found she ought to have directed him to go to the cloak-room. She doubted if Manning would even listen to that. “You are absurd,” she declared. 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. She hoped fervently that Martin had not divulged his crush to Brown.
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