" "'Tis he, by Heaven!" cried Jonathan; "this is lucky. 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. After knocking for some time at the door without effect, he tried the latch, and to his surprise found it open. Something seemed awry. Some shadow of reserve seemed to have crept up between them.
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