The face of the man who lay there was clearly visible. It had, as it were, blown up at the concussion of his first step. Such was his fury, that if he had not been restrained by the presence of the two turnkeys, he might perhaps have anticipated the course of justice, by laying violent hands upon his victim. My reply to all of them has been the same. 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 rolled onto his belly, freeing himself from her hands, pushing her away.
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