Spurlock relaxed, suddenly, and sank deeply into his pillows. The bungalows and stores were built of heavy bamboo and gum-wood; sprawly, one-storied affairs; for the typhoon was no stranger in these waters. 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. “You are not going out—this evening, I trust,” that lady asked, a trifle dismayed. Or I should say—’ ‘Eugenia,’ cut in Gerald grimly. “I hope that it has not done any harm.
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