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. He leaned towards her, laid his hand tenderly upon hers. " "Keep it," said Trenchard, haughtily. He reached for her and she stroked his head soothingly as his mother had done a few times when he had suffered bad fevers. Not so Gosse. ‘You! Have you pen and paper?’ ‘Pen and paper now, is it?’ grumbled the old man as he shuffled down the hall. She could tell it was new territory for him and he might lose the nerve to take them off himself, without the aid of drink. ” “Very well,” Anna said.
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