" "Now, mark me," said Jonathan, "and you'll find I don't do things by halves. 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. He was brooding over her, she could sense it, and the shadowy circles around his lovely dark eyes bespoke a terrible ongoing insomnia. Of course, girls repeat phrases and opinions of which they cannot possibly understand the meaning. Ah, Thierry and Poussaint, if my memory serves me.
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