"You've got to kill me to get out of here alive. But the recollection of the warm pliant body in his arms …! "I am a thief!" he whispered. Wild hasn't been to inquire after him to-day," observed Langley; "it's the first time he's missed doing so since the trial. 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. Something has happened to change her marvellously, either that, or she wilfully deceived me and every one else in those days as to her real self. Little by little, she stopped hating him. E.
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