As he proceeded, other painful reminiscences were aroused. 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. He saw that his words were falling upon dull ears. ‘What do we do now?’ Gerald took a pace towards the girl. Yet I fancy that we who have been poor ourselves must be the best judges of the needs of the people.
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