He was so depressed and disheartened that he did not then believe he would ever write again. Even in the daylight, it had a sombre and suspicious air, and seemed to slink back from the adjoining houses, as if afraid of their society. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. She was taken dreadfully ill on the road, with spasms and short breath, and swoonings,—worse than ever she was before.
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