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" "Hoddy," she repeated. 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. Wood, in a whisper, as he filled a rummer to the brim, not to forget the health of the Chevalier de Saint George—a proposition to which the lady immediately responded by drinking the toast aloud. " "They shall have it, then," replied his better half, rising. ” “Yes,” said Mr. She brought the cups of cocoa back to the bedroom.

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