“You come into these sordid surroundings—you mustn’t mind my calling them sordid—and it makes them seem as though they didn’t matter. 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. "Flying fish. “I suppose delusions are not uncommon to patients in his condition. The fibre of his soul had to be tested, queerly, to make him worthy of you.
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