She’s right upstairs. I believed that she was my wife, or she would have been safe from me. We are nuns. She may be an infuriating little devil, but she is far from stupid. "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. Charcoal. It is no problem.
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