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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. ’ ‘You should be happy that you are not dead,’ she retorted, but with a diminution of the venom and fright in her voice. \"Where would you like to go?\" \"Burger King okay?\" \"Are you sure you don't want to go to some place fancier?\" He was surprised.
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