“Indeed, no,” he answered. He touched it again, and this time it was not withdrawn. The idea of Ruth as a talisman against misfortune—which he now recognized as a sick man's idea— faded as his appreciation of the absurd reasserted itself. You only mean a secret for a little time?” “Just for a little time,” she said; “yes. Seems you were right about Valade. "His life—or yours?" "No one shall harm you more, my dear," cried Lady Trafford. Nothing disheartened by this survey, Jack set to work upon the lock, which he attacked with all his implements;—now attempting to pick it with the nail;— now to wrench it off with the bar: but all without effect. 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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