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. Everybody talking of you. Wood, when he does return, I'd send him about his business. Mrs. ‘Why do you stand there? Take him up, and bring him out at once. As he hesitated, unable to make up his mind what to do for the best, a heavy rumbling on the cobbles penetrated his absorption.
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