"What did the old fellow judge from, eh, Joan?" asked he. " "We shall have a durty night on it, to a sartinty, landlord," observed an old oneeyed sailor, who sat smoking his pipe by the fire-side. He's an interpretative genius, if there ever was one. And as these things should always be treated as matters of business, I'll just draw up a memorandum of our arrangement. 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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