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 do not know if I will have to escape quickly once more. I don’t see any good in life if it hasn’t got you in it. I should like Mr. I had rather have trouble and hardship like that than be taken care of by others. An admirable alternative presented itself and she sighed, spreading her hands. On your own.
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