Annabel had spoken calmly enough and steadily, but his brain refused at first to accept the full meaning of her words. 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 is no more English than that set of beggars over there. A note of belligerency had crept into his tone. With a gesture which was without any kind of emotional expression, the manager indicated the silent crumpled figure on the floor and gave the room number. He wasn't satisfied with an assured income from the paper-mills your grandfather left us. "Were I in your place," said Smith, "I should be apprehensive of Wild, because he's a declared enemy.
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