\" He said, as he threw his trash into the can on the way out. . McClintock would bang his fist upon the table. 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. ‘You have said you do not wish to hurt me. " Quitting the night-cellar, the trio soon arrived at the riverside.
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