‘Well said, my dear. ‘Here you, Pottiswick. The Victorians over-did it a little, I admit. And what will they do, and where will they go?" "With me—the both of them. 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 have—run away.
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