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“Miss Ellicot!” Brendon echoed. ’” “What did he say?” “What does any one say to an invitation to dinner point-blank? One tries to collect one’s wits. Then, mysteriously, he no longer smelled or tasted it. 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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