In any event, I explained that no one lived here and that we’d been called in because of suspected intruders. “You seem to be taking our little joke more seriously than it deserves, Ferringhall,” he remarked. 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. ‘Nevertheless, you will marry me,’ he snarled. "Well," growled Blueskin, "you've had my offer.
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