She had not chosen her life, but she was foggy on whether or not it was right to deny others the right to join her in her suffering. Spurlock lay with his head on his arms, asleep. Whence she came,—who she was,—and what she wanted,—were questions which naturally suggested themselves to Blueskin, and he was about to seek for some explanation, when his curiosity was checked by a gesture of silence from the lady. “I’m thirsty.
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