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You are not playing to-night, are you?” “Not to-night,” she answered. 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. The well of tears in her eyes was dry. A brief calm succeeded. But we’ve got the brains to get over that, and tongues in our heads to talk to each other. " "It wasn't the fumes of whisky that toppled him out of his chair. The fact itself is regrettable enough—regrettable, I fear, is quite an inadequate word. ’ ‘Entertained, he says!’ ‘Intrigued, then,’ amended Gerald equably, although truth to tell he was enjoying the mystery enormously.
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