Kimble had bedded the animal down at the local inn. 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. ” Rhea whispered. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. She tried surreptitiously to reach her own dagger, in its cunning hiding place in her petticoat.
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