“Oh, damn!” he said. I am yours for the making over. She laid her hand upon his arm. Let me lend you some money. And guess what? I don’t sleep much, if you haven’t noticed. 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. We were going at a mad pace. “And where are YOU going?” he said.
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