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In you—if you can love me—there is salvation. 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. “You are not going out—this evening, I trust,” that lady asked, a trifle dismayed. "Save him," replied Jonathan. His apparel was sumptuous in the extreme, and such as was only worn by persons of the highest distinction. "Quite sorry, my good friend, there should have been any misunderstanding between us," observed the woollen-draper. The thought passed through his mind even as he started to cross the terrace at a jogtrot, moving to head her off.
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