At this point a carriage with servants in sumptuous liveries was stationed. Her wedding gown! She wondered if the spirit of the unknown mother looked down upon her. "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. “Well, I don’t know,” she said thoughtfully. She turned to Lucilla, a plea in her face. She had not chosen her life, but she was foggy on whether or not it was right to deny others the right to join her in her suffering. Pretty good stuff, some of it. ‘You are really not helping matters, my friend.
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