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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. “By Jove!” he broke out, “one tries to take a serious, sober view. " "You might have added 'then'," said Miss Spurlock, drily. " "Rather behind me;" and he spoke no more that morning. Pardon! I wish to say, for your granddaughter, we seek succour. Stanley being bored and feeling limited. The thought had not even occurred to him.
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