Your attitude to me—” He fell into a brown study. The ruse succeeded almost beyond his expectation. “Don’t know me, eh? I like that. But the rise of the chest was quite perceptible now. It was, in his opinion, the most astonishing letter he had ever read. 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. "It's too late to carry 'em before a magistrate now, Sir Rowland; so, with your permission, I'll give 'em a night's lodging in Saint Giles's round-house. ’ ‘A convent?’ echoed Gerald with interest.
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