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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. He squatted and threw his arm around the backs of her knees. Sir John followed her gaze, and also saw them. He pressed the long shapely hand warmly in his. I could not become an Oracle. Old thoughts, old feelings, old faces, and old scenes have returned to me, and I have fancied myself happy,—as happy as I am now. ” “I promise,” he answered heartily.
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