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He was draining a glass, and as he set it down he shuddered. ‘So it is that you have made Jacques betray me. “In Paris our lives were far apart, and we had seldom the same friends. She shivered, more due to his presence than the changing weather. 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 have a letter for him from his brother, which I was just leaving. I did not know what God had in mind then.
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