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. A hundred pounds to the man who takes him. She loves you too well for that. The ambitions of his life, and they were many, seemed to lie far away, broken up dreams in some outside world where the way was rough and the sky always grey. And since then, he has openly avowed his determination of cutting his master's throat on the slightest inkling of treachery.
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