. ’ ‘I don’t want to think it,’ he said, and she thrilled to the savagery in his tone. "I have nearly done," replied the stranger. 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. Through fire and water, through penury and pestilence, your hand will always be on his shoulder.
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