But be patient, I am your fast friend. He had grabbed her in the stream, embracing her naked body tightly, running his hands over her breasts and clutching her buttocks. 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. The horse-soldiers wheeled round and cleared a path: the foot closed in upon the cart.
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