His exploits and escapes are in every body's mouth. ’ ‘Yes, but in fact you’ve offered me far more entertainment than any French spy could have done. 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. ” “The truth,” she murmured, with her eyes fixed upon him. Even Capes had been for her merely an excitant to passionate love—a mere idol at whose feet one could enjoy imaginative wallowings.
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