He is big and powerful; one of those drinkers who show it but little outwardly. It was something that Sebastian had refused to do, a lifestyle that he placed himself above. " "I have a question to propose to you," said Trenchard, "relating to—" and he hesitated. 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. "Give me your hand, Poll, to help me through," cried Jack, as he accomplished the operation. From head to foot he was attired in the fashionable garb of the young man of the moment. I killed him, Nigel.
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