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. His strength has been described as prodigious; but now, heightened by his desire for vengeance, it was irresistible. Pramlay lived for amenities and the mellowed surfaces of things. In vain Wood protested his innocence. “No. Don’t go back into Victorian respectability and pretend you don’t know and you can’t think and all the rest of it.
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