She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience. Dese ere not schouts, as you faind, but jonkers on a vrolyk; and if dey'd chanshed to keel de vrow Sheppard's pet lamb, dey'd have done her a servish, by shaving it from dat unpleasant complaint, de hempen fever, with which its laatter days are threatened, and of which its poor vader died. The girl regarded him with the face of a Sphinx. That is an evil place!” She cried.
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