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. It was easy enough to lie to anyone else. To be near someone, even someone who made a pretense of friendliness, to hear voices, her own intermingling, would serve as a rehabilitating tonic. "Basely and inhumanly murdered, by Jack Sheppard and Blueskin," continued Kneebone.
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