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 got out of the car and lifted her from the convertible before she could open the door. When the paroxysm passed, he was forced to lean against the window-jamb for support. She leaned over and kissed his cheek innocently. He slapped his knee.
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