"As it's getting late, and the porter may be gone to bed," he observed; "I'll take the pass-key, and let myself in. That’s how it takes me. Speak lower. "You frighten the cull out of his senses. "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.
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