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 have established a fine trade. ’ Gerald tutted. No means were neglected to accomplish this end. Faintly bothered by what it might mean, Gerald rose from his seat and crossed to the tray to pour himself a glass of wine. Ennison?” “He spoke to me, thinking that I was you,” Anna answered.
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