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 had done the most compromising things, and behaved in the most ridiculous way. At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. She got home every night in time to cook supper and it was good money. But at last this ordeal was over, and Ramage opened the door. ‘You would read my mind?’ Gerald was pretty certain he already had, but he did not say so. ‘She wants me to marry her.
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