Whisky kills him suddenly; it does not sap him gradually. The owner of this dress had a broad weather-beaten face, small twinkling eyes, and a bushy, grizzled beard. He felt that he might soon be separated—perhaps, for ever—from the fond little creature he held in his arms, whom he had always regarded with the warmest fraternal affection, and the thought of how much she would suffer from the separation so sensibly affected him, that he could not help joining in her grief. There was a lapse of time, an interval of blackness; then he found his hand in hers and she was leading him at a run up the side of the mountain. “So far you’ve got me and I you.
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