There would be no mercy in this man. She reached a tiny yellow-fronted cottage covered with flowering creepers, and entered the front room by the wide-open window. "You hay'n't hurt your arm, I trust, my dear?" he added, anxiously. Let’s go on climbing 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.
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