’ She was about to develop this theme, when Jack’s gaze became fixed, and his expression changed. That would be him. She laughed as the deluge seemed to grow worse with every step. In a moment the brisk evening breeze caught the lank canvas and bellied it taut. But not once in these ten years had they borne blossom or fruit. 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.
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