"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. Covered with houses, from one end to the other, this reverend and picturesque structure presented the appearance of a street across the Thames. “Have you turned him yet?” Michelle whispered hotly, trying not to raise the volume of her voice. She went into shock.
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