\" He took his milk and cookies to bed. It was eleven o'clock. 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. No—you shall come with me to Waterloo. What had she so nearly said? She had almost spoken a name—and quickly withdrawn it. Wood's, the carpenter in Wych Street. You and the girl have made it soft for him, and I'm going to make it soft for him.
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