" And she flung herself between them. Collins, you can go now. I beg that you will consider me your friend. "He'll learn that his plans will be defeated. 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. " "I never doubted the latter point, I assure you, Madam," observed Mrs. "I thought you'd have got rid of your ill-humour by this time. The signs of tears had all gone, but some subtle change seemed to have stolen into her face. Only the strong survived. "Och! he's a broth of a boy!" "Why, I thought he'd broken your head, Terry?" "Phooh! that's nothing? A piece o' plaster'll set all to rights; and Terry O'Flaherty's not the boy to care for the stroke of a supple-jack.
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