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” She was silent, and in the gloom of the dimly lit apartment he could not see her face. Gerald was instantly on the alert. 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 remained listening attentively. She had recourse to the torn off strip of petticoat again, and blowing her nose with an air of determination, sniffed back the tears. There are human limitations, and no doubt you reached yours. “Go down and rescue the rags of my reputation,” she said, smiling. What of that?" "Vot 'o that!" echoed Sharples, peevishly: "Everythin'.
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