“I will take a carriage,” she said, “and fetch my things. Ramage. Are you sure what it is you want of me?” “I want you. Smith, "upon my conscience. 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. And now she comprehended that the man (she had never known him by any name) knew she had surprised the look and had not resented it. “I thought every one had heard,” said Miss Klegg. " "Conscious; well, that's good news.
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