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. My arm's nearly well again. "I hardly know," returned Jack; "but it's not safe for me to remain much longer here. All the jailers declared it utterly impossible he could have accomplished his astonishing task unaided; but who had lent him assistance was a question they were unable to answer. “You silly wimmin,” he said over and over again throughout the hearing, plucking at his blotting-pad with busy hands.
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