I followed you in. The unexpected twist—his disclosure to McClintock—had given Spurlock but temporary relief. 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. A bad man, in fact. Amongst other things, he had just brought down an old laced bavaroy, a species of surtout much worn at the period. You do not need my compliments.
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