She had heard the trader utter it many times. ”) Well, they might say that, but he knew very well that before long they would regret it. I must obey. "I could almost forgive the wretch the injury he did me in depriving me of my poor dear wife—No, not quite that," he added, a little confused. 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. ” She replied. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. .
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