"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. Melusine gritted her teeth. "A doctor? What he needs is a good jolt of aromatic spirits of ammonia. There was only one idea in his head now—to batter and bruise and crush this weakling, then cast him at the feet of his love-lorn wife. ’ ‘Begging your pardon, miss, but I think as how you ought to go back to London,’ Jack ventured. She had fallen asleep on the wooden bed, uncaring of lice or bedbugs.
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