” “I didn’t mind that little argument. He had spoken impressively, and most likely Anna, had she reappeared, would have met with a fair reception. Utter silence answered him. 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. A new inexplicable madness that urged him to shrill ironically the story of his coat—to take it off and fling it at the feet of any stranger who chanced to be nigh. She had never been so happy to vomit. How the deuce did I ever manage to father such a brainless nincompoop? A nun, for God’s sake! A confounded Catholic nun. A tourist caravan of four pole-chairs jogged along a narrow street. Has your ladyship any further commands?" "None whatever.
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