. 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. “And yet you still live, Butterfly. "Do you mean to say you will interfere—" "I mean to say this," interrupted Wild, with contemptuous calmness, "that I'll neither allow you to leave England nor the profession you've engaged in. "You hay'n't hurt your arm, I trust, my dear?" he added, anxiously. ’ She gestured at his hand, on which Roding’s makeshift bandage had been replaced by a more efficient one. You care for me a little, I know. "Not exactly," answered Jonathan, drily.
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