Mr. 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. I rather want them. I don’t want a family in the suburbs and Christmases at the Florida house and summers at the Hamptons. She went out into the hall, where she met the Jedsons in their kimonos. Creative work appeals to me wonderfully.
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