"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. ‘And you know, my dear, I do think you must make up your mind to beard this wretched grandfather of yours. Over an old crazy bedstead was thrown a squalid, patchwork counterpane; and upon the counterpane lay a black hood and scarf, a pair of bodice of the cumbrous form in vogue at the beginning of the last century, and some other articles of female attire. But it was not adieu, so she promised her old nurse. She heard the television blaring away. That it provided proof of the girl’s identity was one thing.
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