There were some deepseated fears of the rot spreading to England, if the simmering discontent of the peasantry of France were to erupt any further. John turned toward the short staircase as she alit upon the first creaky step. Then he went back to his rooms and lit a cigar. 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. Sheppard. The folds of a thick muslin neckcloth in some degree protected him, but the gash was desperate.
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