" "I will yield it to no one but its mother," answered Wood. Think better of it. Suddenly, such a shout as has seldom smitten human ears rent the air. 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. She thought of how much she wanted to eat the foods she had once feasted on that now smelled as innocuous as spring flowers.
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