“Annabel?” he exclaimed. From a bi-secting street came shouting and music. He took a sip of punch and commenced his relation. And all the old—the old trick of shrinking up like a snail at a touch. "Nothing!" echoed the other, scornfully. "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. If Jack should die, all though her fault, she could never forgive herself. In the distance a barrel-organ was grinding out a pot pourri of popular airs. The ink, contained in a grimy bottle unearthed in the outhouse, was old, and made blotches as soon as it touched the paper. “She wasn’t sane, my wife. No doubt— because he did not understand you—he thought you had run away with someone.
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