“Michelle, don’t do this. Brown broke the silence. His manner was deferential, even eager. She turned her cheek to the cold sill; and by and by the sill grew warm and wet with tears. 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 odd—I have no doubt in my mind that what we are doing is wrong,” he said.
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