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. It would be protective; it would with age turn to silver unnoticeably. It had her raven locks, her pouting lips. She opened it and imbibed. "I'll go to her directly," said Wood, bustling towards the door. ” She disengaged herself from him and went out of the room with a grave, preoccupied expression. Glancing at each other, they rose from their seats and ventured to address the captain.
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