. . 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 knew she was out there, he could feel it. Now if she sent fifteen pounds the suggestion that she had spent a five-pound note in the meanwhile would be irresistible. “I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen.
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