"Well, well; look who's here!" cried Spurlock. From her stomacher, to which it was attached by a multitude of glittering steel chains, depended an immense turnip-shaped watch, in a pinchbeck case. “David,” she said, “you are not a coward, are you?” “I do not know,” he muttered. Yet her hands dropped, and she sighed deeply. The passion of pent-up speech compelled action of some sort. Instead, she laughed, laughed with lips and eyes, laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks. 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 dagger, is it then?’ The girl froze. I said I’d make shirts.
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