“But you yourself,” she exclaimed, glancing into his face, “you too look tired. 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. “Well?” she said. The skipper obeyed, and in another moment, they swept through the narrow lock. Do not waste time in vain regrets, but let us remove the body, that we may fulfil her last injunctions.
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