Lose not a moment, Hobson. Life is so good. "Have a little patience, Sir," rejoined the jailer. Except that this music we have been swimming in is divine. "Yes … but dreadfully tired. 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. But I was sorry for poor Jack—as I am still, and hoped he would mend. He helped himself to a beer, then a vodka and tonic, then two rum and Cokes.
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