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. He meditated, and began a new paragraph. “I shall not agree to six. They don’t count, and I don’t care. Annabel, tell me that you did not wish me dead. ‘Do you not understand that I can trust no one—no one?’ ‘That is a pity,’ Gerald said, rising to face her.
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