I can’t love you. 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. Amongst others, a person near the door, roused by the shriek, observed a man make his exit with the utmost precipitation. I bound him up good and tight, stuffed his mouth with a length of rope, taped it shut.
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