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. ‘Kimble, you shouldn’t be here. ‘Who is that man? What has he to do with you? No, don’t tell me. "It's wretched enough, indeed, Sir," rejoined the widow; "but, poor as it is, it's better than the cold stones and open streets. Her mind turned to her own future, the endless trickle of years.
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