After what seemed like an eternity he turned right onto a dirt road that ended unceremoniously at a copse of leafless trees. 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. Sheppard. When he could find words, he tried by the most urgent solicitations to prevail upon the constable to let him out. ‘I—I mean, she were—’ ‘Pretty as a picture?’ suggested Gerald. "I merely asked the question," he said, after he had enjoyed the boy's suspense for a moment.
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