" CHAPTER V. '" "No, we can't stand that," hiccupped Smith, scarcely able to keep his legs. He walked through a wide open archway, curtained with deep-blue curtains, into the apartment that served as a reception-room. 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.
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