‘Yes, th-there it is,’ she uttered, stumbling a little over the words. But one day he came to me. She did not open the Bible but laid it on the edge of the bed, knelt and rested her forehead upon the worn leather cover. “Never. "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.
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