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. I love the soles of your feet. Ah! but you can’t imagine what you are to me and what you mean to me! I suppose there is something mystical and wonderful about all women. “Tell me,” she insisted, “why you look like that. "I am happy—quite happy now. I certainly didn’t mean to kiss you. Maybe half a year, counting this summer. One can't help being jealous, you know, even of an unworthy object. “Where are they?” She looked around.
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