F. " "More blood! more blood!" cried Trenchard, passing his hand with agony across his brow. Assessing him as harmless, she had remained friendly, albeit aloof. “You must answer me, Annabel,” she continued. Still no sound. 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.
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