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. “I’m going to talk of indifferent themes,” said Ramage, a little fussily, “until these interruptions of the service are over. ‘You cannot be André Valade if you tell them I am one of this family. He was here shortly after the young man was taken ill. Even if you pretend sometimes to be without sense. Though nearly dark, there was still light enough left to enable him to discern surrounding objects.
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