Jack Kimble stiffened, looking at his interrogator with wary anger in his face. "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. He stepped back further. I guess they were bad all the time. "It's not very likely that a babby of nine months old will save my life, if I'm to be his friend, as you seem to say, Mrs. She had animated dark blue-gray eyes under her fine eyebrows, and dark brown hair that rolled back simply and effectively from her broad low forehead. On the next morning—Sunday—the day on which he expected his mother's funeral to take place, he set out along the Harrow Road. “My God!” he said again.
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