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. A common rage flushed their faces. Read it, and you'll find that your unfortunate uncle, Sir Rowland, surrenders to you all the estates in Lancashire. How provoking!" she added, pretending to rummage her pockets; "one never can find a thing when one wants it. " "You hear, my son," said the widow eagerly. ” “Thank you, Jane.
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