" "And perish upon the gibbet," rejoined Jonathan contemptuously. 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. Voilà tout. “Why, I do not know. “You ought at once—you ought at once to have told her that. My vengeance is completely gratified. You might even tire of me by then, you know. "So it is," the doctor agreed. “I’d run away with you in a heartbeat. In any place her beauty would have been an uncommon thing.
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