She threw hat and coat on the bed and sat down before the fire. "Where am I to take it to?" asked Sheppard. “Lucy. What right had she to call herself “Alcide”? It was abominable, an imposture. "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. "Why do you laugh?" she asked gravely.
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