To escape one phase of loneliness she had plunged into another, so vast that her courage sometimes faltered. "A good idea!" exclaimed the carpenter. Something about the girl had suggested an idea. "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. And it hampers us. “You come into these sordid surroundings—you mustn’t mind my calling them sordid—and it makes them seem as though they didn’t matter. ” He looked at her anxiously, and she met his glance with a dazzling smile of gratitude.
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