’ A sudden clatter of booted feet sounded in the hall beyond. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. "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. The fashions of the day have become antiquated.
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