Promise me one thing before I leave you. ‘Your master in?’ he demanded of the astonished footman, removing his cockaded hat and handing it over. 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. Fritz sang for her sometimes, for Fritz could sing even before he was able to form words. ‘You do not try.
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