"Will he live?" asked Ruth. Have you brought me a message from my sister? I understood, I believe, that she was seeing you last night. 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. ‘As for your dagger—’ She held out her hand palm up, as if she expected him to give her the weapon.
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