. He then spoke with a certain fatherly kindliness of the past. She liked the animated eagerness of his manner. " Good-natured fellows are always especial favourites with boys. 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. The clock struck half-past ten. Pshaw!" added he, making an effort to subdue his emotion, "I can't leave you in this way. You can’t possibly understand!” He began a confused explanation, a perplexing contradictory apology for his urgency and wrath. Wood. But she did not know what he knew, that it would always be rolling up, enlivened by suggestion, no matter how trifling. Maybe it’s his loss.
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