“Leave them!” He yelled. At present the world waits for that writer, and the confused record of the newspapers remains the only resource of the curious. This is part of a dream— some evil fancy. 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. Her voice recalled him. Then, presto! What a dreary lot they are when the revellers lay aside the motley! Ruth had come from a far South Sea isle.
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