"What is it?" "The night," she answered. 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. The one I have is a duplicate. Afraid, no doubt, he thought grimly, that her other visitor would leave. I trust that she will not misunderstand me. Instead, God had sent her Sebastianus, a man who had sold his soul to the Devil to gain eternal life, or perhaps he was even the Devil himself. The coconut plantation covered the west side. She too at once developed an anxious interest in the street outside.
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