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He uttered a short laugh. 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. Darting down Field-lane, Jack struck into a labyrinth of streets on the left; but though he ran as swiftly as he could, he was not unperceived. "You can do so. But, alas! she was beautiful—and beauty is a crime not to be forgiven by a jealous woman. "The lash cuts to the bone.
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