“Concern me!” she repeated fiercely. This time she feinted as his point came up to deflect her own, and disengaging, passed under and cut at his cheek. . She looked upon it with pity as she drank his diabetic blood and saw that several of his fingers were missing. "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.
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