"'Odd's-my-life!—what's that?" he cried, greatly alarmed. 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. The doctor laughed. ‘Well?’ he uttered between heavy breaths. The Jacobite. Taking off his stockings, he then drew up the basils as far as he was able, and tied the fragments of the broken chain to his legs, to prevent them from clanking, and impeding his future exertions. She did not hear his approach, but continued her occupation without raising her head.
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