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. Now lend me your own hand. That would be myself, or if she lived, Mary’s daughter. Only the night before, in the dining room of the Hong-Kong Hotel, she had watched him empty glass after glass of whisky, and shudder and shudder. " "It's mine, I'll be sworn," rejoined Wood.
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