CHAPTER XXIII. ” She instructed him. ” “I don’t think it makes a rap of difference, except for one thing. 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. "Here, Poll, help me!" Thus exhorted, Mrs. She was slowed down by the icy wind that punctuated itself in screams around houses and trees. Evidently Ah Cum's luck had held good.
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