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. "Rowland," she rejoined, "you strive in vain to terrify me into compliance with your wishes. So was I, in fact. The pole-chair caravan resumed its journey. ” And to that, through vast rhetorical meanderings, she clung.
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