“The Beck family has the cooking gene. I'll bet you've been in Hong-Kong these two weeks already, and never a line to me. 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. Then she threw the volume away with a little impatient exclamation. He became ugly and monstrous, dunning her, threatening her, assailing her.
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