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‘And it is not only a question of her identity, but a matter of her life as well. 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. ” “Never,” he exclaimed vehemently. ” She relented. Spurling, who wished to protract the discovery of the escape as long as possible. It would be a great matter, I must own, to bring Jonathan Wild to justice. “It’s precious unromantic.
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