"Goodness only knows what he's reserved for," rejoined the widow in a desponding tone; "but if Mynheer Van Galgebrok, whom I met last night at the Cross Shovels, spoke the truth, little Jack will never die in his bed. At sight of his wan features, she forgot the urgency of her need for a moment, and fell to her knees at his bedside, placing her hands on his slack ones where they lay on the soiled coverlet. Then we can loiter and gossip to our heart’s content. “I must live, you know. But you! Why the devil did you marry her? That's the thing that confounds me. “Who tied this scarf here?” he asked, looking up. ” She came closer. ’ Fury rippled again.
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