Am I quite hidden?" "Not quite;—keep your feet in. Stanley regarded his neighbor’s clean-shaven face almost warily. 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. ’ Quick anger flared, surpassing the fluttering hope. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say.
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