The flight. Manning,” she began. The room was worse than pokey, it was shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs, wholly uninspiring. ” Lucy spoke up, “We used to call that ‘playing the coquette’. 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. " "How so?" inquired Winifred.
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