"Halloa, widow!" shouted a rough voice from below, "where the devil are you?" Mrs. She untucked his starched shirt, running her hands along his smooth torso and underneath his arms. "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. “I suppose I fell in love with her, Ann Veronica.
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