Her life hangs upon a thread, and this may snap it. The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. She hated tricking Shari, whose joy for life was the only thing that made her naive enough to fall for laced iced tea or hot cocoa, depending on the season. That is what my mother used to call me. He had been reading Belfort Bax, and declared himself a convert.
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