He opened his eyes, protestingly, and beheld the realization of his dream. Lucy had baked the apple and pumpkin pies, carefully molding the flour crusts and adding extra teaspoonfuls of allspice and cinnamon while no one looked. I am sorry to seem to disobey you, but I am. But McClintock's mind was perceptive, whereas Spurlock's was only dully confused. 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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