‘Exactement. That’s why he was so annoyed, you know. I'll repay you. Fear nothing. Ruth returned to the table. My poor son despairs of me, for I have primed every member of the family to bring me the latest novels whenever they choose to visit. 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. "Thank you, sir," said Spurlock, holding out his hand.
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