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. Sure of foot, noiseless, he made the veranda and paused at the side of one of the screened windows. Why, is the question I would like answered. ” He retorted smartly, looking at her with mischief. “I suppose you’ll come to the point soon—if there is one.
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