” “That is so,” Anna admitted. The salt air was fresher than the stale air in the manor. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. Overcome by his affliction, Mr. "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.
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