Gregory B. ’ Miss Froxfield regarded him in some interest. Her safety lay in pretense—that what she saw was as a tale twice told. 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. To-morrow, we'll go to the Fleet and get spliced. “I don’t see what else I could have said,” he remarked. After the first onset several of the women who had apartments to let said she would not do for them, and in effect dismissed her.
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