"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. ’ So saying, he pulled her forward, slipping her arms about his back. My friend the doctor suspected it, and so do I. He was disquieted. She looked upon it with pity as she drank his diabetic blood and saw that several of his fingers were missing. If one wants a thing very much, perhaps one is inclined to think one can’t have it. Sheppard. A short way off in the fields he descried a sort of shed or cow-house, and thither he contrived to drag his weary limbs. It was an excuse, dredged up on the spur of the moment to cover a slip.
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