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. "My mother is avenged. It ran: —————————————————————————| Bored | and | nothing |—————|—————-|—————|————|————| | will | you | dine |—————|—————-|—————|————|————| | to-night | somewhere | and |—————|—————-|—————|————|————| | shall | be | grateful —————————————————————————- | to | do | | with | me | | talk | I | | Ramage | | Ann Veronica was rather pleased by this. Of this boy she had only caught a glimpse;—but that glimpse was sufficient to satisfy her it was her son,—and, if she could have questioned her own instinctive love, she could not question her antipathy, when she beheld, partly concealed by a pillar immediately in the rear of the woollen-draper, the dark figure and truculent features of Jonathan Wild. She went to her bedroom, but she did not go to bed.
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