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. Fly! fly!" "Do not think of me, mother, but of yourself," cried Jack, in an agony of tears. "Did you ever see the like of her?" "No," answered McClintock, gravely. This hand consigned him to destruction, but another was stretched forth to save him. Perhaps it was just as well there was no inherited memory. Then the work is optional; they go on their own.
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