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, if you hear any odd noise in the parlour, don't mind it. It would be very hard perhaps to make you understand just how I feel about it. Who are they?" Mr. She smiled encouragingly, laying aside her plate and turning her chair from the table.
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