” “No,” she cried, “I will not. From the first I could see that neither believed my story. ” She shrugged her shoulders. On coming to himself, he found he had been wrapped in a blanket and put to bed with a couple of hot bricks to his feet. 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.
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