” “That’s one of our differences. Ruth stared into the painted face, now sundrily cracked by the coursing tears. " Mr. 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. "Come, off with it, sirrah, or I'll blow out your brains, in the first place, and strip you afterwards.
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