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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. She lived, he noted, very carelessly. Sheppard, bitterly. " Upon this he arose, and paced the room hastily backwards and forwards, as if further arranging his plans. ‘To me, quickly!’ There was a brief hush, and then the shouts resumed and several pairs of feet clattered towards her from, as it seemed, several directions. John Sheppard.
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