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Many of the soldiers dismounted, and called for drink. "Save him," replied Jonathan. " "Dear mother, don't say so," returned Winifred. Furiously, she dashed his hands away. ” “Yes,” said Mr. One who steals. 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. " With no little effort—for the right words had a way of tumbling back out of reach—he marshalled his phrases, and as he uttered them, closed his eyes to lessen the possibility of a break.

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