Lucy stared out to the busy streets beyond. \" He rose and departed. She inhaled a deep breath of air—London air. For the past four weeks mirrors had been her delight, a new toy. 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. 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. Spurlock relaxed, suddenly, and sank deeply into his pillows.
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