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. ‘Troops?’ ‘Go, man,’ urged the major in an undervoice. "It's the ordinary's signature, undoubtedly," replied Jack. ’ ‘Ha! You’re Catholic, too, damn his eyes,’ growled the general. You'll find her at Black Mary's Hole.
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