. . His cigar burnt out between his fingers, and he threw it impatiently away. 1. He had been quite right to sit down. In an instant, she turned on him. "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. The recollection was too painful, and he burst into an agony of tears. A wooden balcony in one of the adjoining houses was thronged with ladies, all of whom appeared to take a lively interest in the scene, and to be full of commiseration for the criminal, not, perhaps, unmixed with admiration of his appearance.
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