Later, she understood his reasons; and it had now become habit. The ruffian's companions took his part. But native! She must watch out. Life waits for us. . 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. She reflected before answering. ’ ‘Indeed?’ said Gerald, surprised. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat.
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