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. To-morrow he might be sorry; but to-day, this hour! She rose, not quickly, but with a dignity which only accentuated her beauty. She had left for ever the cage, the galling leash: she was free. Wood caught hold of Jack's leg, and dragged him off the bench. “I do not know you,” she said coldly.
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