He used to call it his fire-escape—ha! ha! I've often used the ladder for my own convenience, but I never expected to turn it to such good account. ‘Precisely. 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. Another glass, Jack. He gurgled as if trying to communicate. ‘Very well, arrest me. .
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