But you must tell her. “Why won’t you sleep in my bed tonight, Lucia, where 80 it’s warm?” He asked her one night, teasing but mournful, as she stood in her bedroom doorway in a long white gown. Upon what this instinct was based she could not say; she was conscious only of its insistence. During the previous night he had been restless; and in the lonely dragging hours his thoughts had raced in an endless circle—action without progress. "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. What he there noticed occasioned a marked change in his demeanour. She was perfectly aware that the boy had gotten some sort of bug in his craw over her despite her sloppy, strange appearance. The fact itself is regrettable enough—regrettable, I fear, is quite an inadequate word. " "So have we all. " "Ha!" exclaimed Jack, drawing in his breath, and leaning forward with intense curiosity. “He just wants to get laid, you know.
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