"I shall want a bottle or two of sack, and a flask of usquebaugh. It ought not to be much. I had not the time to formulate the decoctions that would have saved him— they take weeks to create and must come from your own blood! You were perilously close to death, and had I not watched you constantly for the week you were unconscious they would have buried you alive! Gianfrancesco was ready to give up after two days, 172 ready to throw you in the plague cart! Of course he had no use for you after bearing witness to the loss of your womanly organs. Voices floated down, but there was no sound of pursuit. 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.
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