Such revelations she hoped would be considered out of place and inappropriate. "I'll place it to your account, Sir Rowland," answered the thief-taker, smiling significantly. 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 remembered also, all at once, the very first words he had heard her speak: “I was not born to this. A sarcastic smile seemed to play upon the chief-taker's lips; and abashed at his own irresolution, the lad went on.
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