" "Now for it," thought the woollen-draper, "I shall, at least, ascertain how the land lies. 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. Nay, for aught I know, some of them may even now have got scent of me. When you reach San Francisco, you can buy something more appropriate. A crisis had been reached, and she was almost glad it had been reached. But no; she must step warily.
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