One’s sense of proportion, battered out of all shape in the daily life of cities, reasserts itself. You never can go back. "So I have," replied Hogarth, glancing at Sheppard. "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. I die happy—quite happy in beholding you.
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