I did not reckon upon—him. 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. A smile flickered upon her lips as she glanced towards Brendon, who was very serious indeed. The slim knife was wrested from her grasp, and she was flung backwards, towards the bookcases. It seemed incredible that she and her aunt were, indeed, creatures of the same blood, only by a birth or so different beings, and part of that same broad interlacing stream of human life that has invented the fauns and nymphs, Astarte, Aphrodite, Freya, and all the twining beauty of the gods. "You've hit it," answered Sheppard. The twins weren’t far behind, they got put into the psych ward too.
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