But now that this bar is removed, I trust I may, without impropriety, urge it. 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. To be sure, Ruth had dimly been aware of this; but now for the first time she was made painfully conscious of it. I don't have a phone in my room. It isn’t the same thing.
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