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. The knight, who could ill brook this familiarity, instantly arose. “That,” he said, grimly, with his hand on the doorhandle, “must be your own affair, unless you choose to live at Morningside Park. I know life. ’ ‘But I am not stopping you from carrying on your business.
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