"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. It was easy enough to lie to anyone else. He dodged the boot this time, and smashed his left upon the Wastrel's lips, leaving them bloody pulp.
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