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. “Your friend, “DAVID COURTLAW. I want to get away—to go to London. The smell of laundry detergent was noticeable, the bed sheets very tightly stretched across the bed, tucked in on three sides. "What do you mean by that, sirrah?" cried Wood, reddening with anger. Hastening along the passage he came to the sixth door. Then he sensed the trap.
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