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’ Melusine edged a little away from the portrait. Certainly not a gentlewoman. 104 < 14 > THE UNTIMELY DEMISE OF JOSEPH R. . 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. A deep silence, however, now prevailed, broken only by the tolling of the bells of Newgate and St.
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