"Leave me, Sir; I insist. 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. ‘And I’ll say it as often as I choose, you confounded impertinent wench! Who do you think you’re talking to? I’m your grandfather, girl. ” The stranger came over to them smiling.
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