” John traced his finger over the meeting point of her breast and her ribcage as they lay naked on his unmade bed. 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 parlour was cluttered but cosy. We just want to ask her a few questions about an old murder case. " "Take care you don't fall into it yourself," returned Jackson, with a slight sneer.
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