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. Austin, may repeat it if he pleases to his master, Jonathan Wild,—I have not. The monster, Wild, when he visited my dungeon last night, told me, to add to my misery, that she occupied a cell near me. Spurlock relaxed, suddenly, and sank deeply into his pillows.
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