“For no other reason than you talk too much. She went to the table under the end window at which she had been accustomed to work, and found it swept and garnished with full bottles of re-agents. Their eyes met, and his expressed perplexity and curiosity. 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. She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience. ” John replied. “This is mere nonsense, mere tongue-tied fear!” she said.
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