"Remember the devil!" retorted Terence, who had recovered his natural audacity. 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 found him once in my rooms, and I believe that he had a key to my front door. I am sorry to seem to disobey you, but I am. She will take me in until I can make some plans. ‘Oh, peste, you make me late!’ She glared up at Roding.
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