" "I hope not," replied Wild. To return. People hounded him about the disappearances mercilessly for weeks after the concert, first the police, then the Becks, then people from school. The bars dropped noiselessly and slowly down, till the chain tightened at the staple. 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.
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