She meant to leave anyway, or so she would tell herself later. 82 She was putting a manuscript away, gingerly locking its heavy tooled cover, but it was a huge, awkward tome. It's hereditary, like de jigt, vat you call it—gout —haw! haw!" "If the child is destined to the gibbet, Van Galgebrok," replied the Master, joining in the laugh, "it'll never be choked by a footman's cravat, that's certain; but, in regard to going back empty-handed," continued he, altering his tone, and assuming a dignified air, "it's quite out of the question. I'm glad of it, I'm sure; for it's all owing to him his poor mother's here.
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