” It was her last evening in that wrappered life against which she had rebelled. 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. “I was hoping to be able to secure a few minutes’ conversation with you, Miss Pellissier. Master Thames Ditton, I'll do your biddin'; and you, Misther Quilt Arnold, may do your worst, I defy you. Wood among them?" asked Jack, eagerly.
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