The latter took from his pocket a small note-book and pencil. 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'm sorry, Larry. He looked melancholy enough, it is true. And guess what? I don’t sleep much, if you haven’t noticed. " "Wretch!" cried Jack, raising his hand in a menacing manner, "your triumph will be short-lived. He spent the evening telling her stories of Greece as she sat in front of a roaring fire.
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