“Soon enough, John. Earles. ’ ‘The nuns?’ she said, gazing at him innocently. "A thousand dollars in British pounds!… A thousand dollars for four short stories!" The tan on Spurlock's face lightened. 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. "I don't think that's likely.
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