She turned her cheek to the cold sill; and by and by the sill grew warm and wet with tears. "Why, what the devil would you have had me do!—make myself scarce, eh? You should have tipped me the wink. ‘Neither do I,’ he responded, frowning, ‘but for Gerald’s sake, I’ll do anything I can. 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. I pray, Anna, that you may find your happiness.
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