CHAPTER XII. You can give up thinking and leave all the brain work to her. “Oh, Ann Veronica!” he cried, “I cannot let you go like this! You don’t understand. He was damned if he knew what to do. 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. It isn’t just one among a number of important things; for her it is the important thing, and until she knows far more than I know of the facts of life, how is she to undertake it? So please; if you will, forget that you wrote that letter, and forgive this answer.
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