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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. \" \"It's okay. I want to give you time to think. Tol-de-rol!" As Jack concluded his ditty, the door flew open with a crash, and Thames sprang through the aperture. "As I could wish!" cried Jonathan. “Of course it is okay!” Cathy’s voice rose in volume and in pitch. “Sorry to be so terribly rude, Martin.
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