. 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. By his side sat a remarkably stout dame, to whom he paid as much attention as it was in his iron nature to pay. " "I know you'll contradict it, Sir," said the widow, looking at Wood as if she dreaded to have her fears confirmed,—"I know you will. No— no, it must never be. " "Not now, my love—not now," entreated Wood.
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