Snatching-up his pistols, he rushed to the door, but to his horror found it fastened. hopelessly, and it made me desperate. 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 had finally put aside The Lilac Sunbonnet, gone into his study, lit the gas fire, and written the letter that had brought these unsatisfactory relations to a head. ’ He called through the library door. He was speechless.
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