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. I told him Valade had tried to borrow money off me and asked if he could vouch for the fellow. She had prepared herself to meet violent protest, a recurrence of that burning glance. Won’t you let me—can’t I be of any assistance?” He was obviously in earnest.
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