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. Hope reared. Her long arms handled the sword with a memorized ease and grace. “If they matter to you, they matter. “When it comes there is no mistaking it. Why did the beggar hang on down there, when he could have enjoyed all that civilization had to offer? Yes, he would be mighty glad to see McClintock; and the sooner he came the better.
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