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. Take my child to—it is—oh God!—I am sinking—take it—take it!" "Where?" shouted Wood. Spurling; Austin had never quitted his post. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. “Muck-headed moral ass! I ought to have done anything.
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