She wore a wonderful dress of turquoise blue, made by a great dressmaker for a function which she knew very well now that she would never attend. Sheppard looked round, and exchanged kindly glances with several of those who addressed him. She pulled, he rose to his feet. "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. ‘That’s not much comfort. “But I am sorry,” she exclaimed. "Do you know this picture?" he added, with another significant look, and pointing to the miniature. He was in trouble and she could not help him; that was the ache in her heart.
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