“It was poison—why not?” she answered. "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. Gracious, there’s the gong. She had made a bed for herself out of wood and furs. ” She said. She gained her room, and slammed her door and locked it as though she feared violence and pursuit. Men had tried to kiss her— unshaven derelicts, some of them terrible—but she had always managed to escape.
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