Marvel, then, took two iron weights, each of a hundred pounds, and placed them in the press. 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. Still, his robust frame enabled him to hold out. As the woollendraper's back was towards him, he did not perceive him, but continued his passionate addresses.
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