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"You will be wanting your broth, Hoddy," she said. ‘I’ve eyes in my head, haven’t I?’ He grunted. 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. Sometimes I think she’s tired of us. “All’s well that ends well,” he said; “and the less one says about things the better. Then he went back to his rooms and lit a cigar. E. "I have not many days,—perhaps, not many hours to live.
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