Imbecile. She crept behind the open door and pounced on him when he came out of the bathroom, knocking him onto the floor with a loud thud. Her back stiffened. 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. So Ruth took another step toward her destination, which we in our vanity call destiny.
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