"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. " "Dear mother, don't say so," returned Winifred. Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. She raided their settlements in shifts, staggering her kills from tribe to tribe, undiscriminating of their petty politics.
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