She refused to sleep in the same room with him one night, kicking him in the shins. "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. Then Capes shifted his eyes to her microscope and the little trays of unmounted sections beside it. Recognising the handwriting, he glanced swiftly at the signature, and uttering an explosive curse, cast the paper from him. The newcomer stopped short upon the threshold. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. "Farewell!" cried Jack, embracing them.
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