Returning to the churchyard, he walked round it; and on the western side, near a small yew-tree discovered a new-made grave. "I guess who you mean," rejoined Shotbolt. 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. A granddaughter of mine!’ The idiocy of this notion stuck in his craw and he could think of nothing else for a moment. To begin with, he struck her as being the most variable person she had ever encountered.
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