“Please hurry. 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. Rowland, meantime, alarmed by the voices, snatched a torch from his attendant, and holding it over the side of the wherry, witnessed the incident just described. On this fresh outburst of the storm, Wood threw himself instinctively into the bottom of the boat, and clasping the little orphan to his breast, endeavoured to prepare himself to meet his fate. After all, what can it matter? It was just to make sure. You might have spared yourself many useless journeys and disappointments, and us a good deal of anxiety. I can’t tell anyone certain things about my life. ‘As for you—’ ‘Do not address me.
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