"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. She fell with a plop onto her rear end in the mud and sat dumbly like a statue, water eddying around her. At any rate, I can see that you’re not protecting him at all. Everything was fresh and bright, from the kindly manners of the Frutigen cobbler, who hammered mountain nails into her boots, to the unfamiliar wild flowers that spangled the wayside. She saw now that it was not a dissipated face; it was as smooth and unlined as polished marble, which at present it resembled.
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