"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. I’ve never had a homemade Thanksgiving meal like that. “I had to. Or shall I ask Colonel Anson for a few hints?” “For Heaven’s sake no,” she declared. It is customary even where an agreement is drawn. It was one of those old sliding trap affairs, narrow and steep of descent.
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