I fancy that this is a little more than playing at Bohemianism. Her voice seemed to come from a long way off. ‘Very. 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. ‘Why do you think I told you about the portrait? I’d not seen it, of course, but I’d seen Miss Mary just before she got married, which is when it was painted. It must have been impossible to see me through that much rain. “Think of what people will say!” That became a refrain. ‘But we—mon mari and myself—we have the bonne chance. That a longing of hers should be realized in this strange fashion was difficult to believe: it vaguely suggested something of a trap. " Mrs. It is a precaution merely.
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