"To—to—no matter what," returned the widow distractedly. 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 got a bun and some cocoa in the little refreshment-room, and then wandered through the galleries up-stairs, crowded with Polynesian idols and Polynesian dancinggarments, and all the simple immodest accessories to life in Polynesia, to a seat among the mummies. Manning. And I passed myself off as Meysey Hill, and since—then—I haven’t had a minute’s peace.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDE4LjIyNi45OC4xNjcgLSAxNC0wNy0yMDI0IDExOjE4OjA1IC0gMTgxNjM0OTY4Nw==
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