"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. Cowering in a corner upon a heap of straw sat his unfortunate mother, the complete wreck of what she had been. "Before you go, bring me the bottle of pineapple rum I opened yesterday. I was born on an island in the South Seas.
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