With a moment of inward shame he remembered his deportment towards Anna. But when they were on their way out he whispered in Anna’s ear. 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 looked at her intently. To a woman she might have confided; but to this man, kindly as he was, it was unthinkable. "I am content," said Jack.
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