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 didn’t dream, not even in my wildest dreaming, that—you might have any need of me. He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine. Rhea spun round and sank her teeth into Lucy’s arm. ” “It’s the perpetual trouble,” he said, “of parent and child. They seem to spend their time yawning and inspecting their neighbour’s dresses through those hateful glasses.
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