\" \"It's okay. 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. ” He rowed a stroke and watched the swirl of water from his oar broaden and die away. ” To remain, she felt, was to concede everything. You might trust me with the Chevalier himself,—I'd never betray him.
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