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"I do," replied Thames, in the same tone; "we haven't a moment to lose. Give me but leave to try. 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. ‘I do not mind to pray, no. "It only leads to the fencing crib," replied Wild. There’s that old gentleman at the end of the table—Bullding his name is. A lesson learned.
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