Ramage. But at length, there was a click, and with a swish, the panel of painted books swung outward from the wall. You’ve placed me in a very exceptional position, Miss Stanley. She was weeping now. 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 will do anything and everything I can to become your equal.
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