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‘Nothing. I shall like to think of it—whenever I feel dull. Never mind. "Not so;" answered Wild. ‘Would you like me to enquire for your mystery lady, Gerald? I know the Comte and Comtesse de St Erme quite well. 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. She had now the clear and tranquil expression of one whose mind is made up. It was better even than the hymn-singing.
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