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. ‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked, assuming a fearful accent. As he understood it, folks saw in two or three days all there was to see of Canton. At present the world waits for that writer, and the confused record of the newspapers remains the only resource of the curious. By the time I had recovered myself she had gone. Modern, indeed! She was going to be as primordial as chipped flint.
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