"The blood that has been spilt is that of his wife. “Some day,” she answered. 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. Sheppard, passing her hands over his face, and gazing at him with a look that made him shudder. “I believe that you are right,” he said softly. She read voraciously, and presently, because of her aunt’s censorship, she took to smuggling any books she thought might be prohibited instead of bringing them home openly, and she went to the theatre whenever she could produce an acceptable friend to accompany her.
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