Lucy marveled at the billiards table and the sauna. Old Bedlam. "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. Wood," added she in a hollow voice, and with a ghastly look, "gin may bring ruin; but as long as poverty, vice, and ill-usage exist, it will be drunk. What’s that?” They both stood listening. Their expression was so amiable, that it would have redeemed a countenance a thousand times plainer than hers.
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