Then he relaxed back a little, and let the weapon dangle from his fingers. Wild, he asserted, had robbed him of a large sum of money, and till it was restored he would never plead. She meant to go, she meant to go, she meant to go. 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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