"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. Only first you must find the lantern and light it again and leave it here, near the door, for me to find. The small grey feathers of her exquisitely shaped fan waved gently backwards and forwards. Let me have more light, that I may behold him.
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