" Upon which he drew the trigger of the pistol, which, luckily for the individual against whom it was aimed, flashed in the pan. Or did he? Perhaps he had found another. “Very likely,” he answered. hopelessly, and it made me desperate. 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.
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