He was always drawing contrasts between a woman’s lot and a man’s, and treating her as a wonderful new departure in this comparison. "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. Or was that perhaps because his business in Piccadilly the other day had gone awry? Perhaps Brewis Charvill had not welcomed him with open arms. "Not proud in the least, I declare. ’ Gerald knew the caress in his voice was a trifle ironic. ’ ‘How can I have more? You have taken my pistol. Wood was unable to discover the figure of the widow, but he recognised her dry, hacking cough, and was about to call her down, if she could not find the key, as he imagined must be the case, when a loud noise was heard, as though a chest, or some weighty substance, had fallen upon the floor. "Off!" she cried with a prolonged and piercing shriek. He walked with bent head. She breathed deeply of the starch of his shirt. .
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