‘You will please to tell this—this idiot to release me. "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. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. And all to satisfy a succession of rapacious lightskirts. The latter haughtily returned his salutation, and flung himself, as if exhausted, into a chair. “Please come home. He dined, and then pleaded a political engagement. Bah.
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