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. The dusky obscurity of the room was twice welcome. If only she had thought to plunge the scissors into her own heart! Hoddy … to return and find her either gone or dead! But even as the Wastrel's arms gathered her, there came the sound of hurrying steps on the veranda. "'T is he!" he mentally ejaculated. She had agonized over it for weeks. But the possible attitude of her father she had still to face.
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