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. The noise startled the apprentice, who instantly suspended his labour, and gazed anxiously in the direction whence he supposed it proceeded. ‘She means thanks to you, General,’ Gerald translated automatically, forgetful of his old commander’s fiery temper. Brown broke the silence. Hetty, who had periods of lucid expression, put the thing for her from her pillow. The oblique ruddy lighting distorted them oddly, made queer bars and patches of shadow upon their clothes.
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