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. Lucy had just began to invoke a solace where John was concerned, doing her best to shelve him as not so special after all. She looked down at him and was amazed to see him erect again, amazed at the incredible virility that he possessed. The music took hold of her slowly as her eyes wandered from the indistinct still ranks of the audience to the little busy orchestra with its quivering violins, its methodical movements of brown and silver instruments, its brightly lit scores and shaded lights. They agreed to lend her their hold-all and a large, formless bag which they called the communal trunk.
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