" "'The thief cometh in the night, and the troop of robbers spoileth without,'" said Wood, who had a text for every emergency. 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. Their doors stood open, and placards with big letters indicated the section assigned to each. After all, that was life. Where I am in error, you can set me right. On taxing his recollection, the whole circumstance rushed to mind with painful distinctness.
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