“The doctor has asked me to give them my reasons—for shooting myself. It was astonishing how often this picture returned: cold rosy apples and flurries of snow. We may meet—who can tell? But I will not be fettered, even though you would make the chains of roses. " "Then the sooner I'm off the better," cried Wood; "what's to pay, David?" "Don't affront me, Owen, by asking such a question," returned the landlord; "hadn't you better stop and finish the bottle?" "Not a drop more," replied Wood.
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