On coming to himself, he found he had been wrapped in a blanket and put to bed with a couple of hot bricks to his feet. ” Lucy replied. ‘Besides, I don’t want the men blundering in here and frightening off our spy. 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. Buried under various ancestral sixteenths, smothered under modern thought, liberty of action and bewildering variety of flesh-pots, it was still alive to the extent that it needed only his present state to resuscitate it in all its peculiar force.
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