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. A young man was playing the banjo. I saw the metal box a hundred times, but I never thought of opening it until the day I fled. ‘To take a baby all the way to France without a wet-nurse. She opened it and imbibed. Grasping it firmly with both hands, he quickly wrenched if from the stones in which it was mortised, and leapt to the ground. .
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