"Try!" Enraged at the assurance of his mistress, the woollen-draper endeavoured to carry his threat into execution, but all his efforts to remove her were unavailing. It'll be turning over to-morrow. All the sombre visions she had been pressing back, fighting out of her thoughts, swarmed over the barrier and crushed her. 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.
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