The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. It's hereditary, like de jigt, vat you call it—gout —haw! haw!" "If the child is destined to the gibbet, Van Galgebrok," replied the Master, joining in the laugh, "it'll never be choked by a footman's cravat, that's certain; but, in regard to going back empty-handed," continued he, altering his tone, and assuming a dignified air, "it's quite out of the question. "You are my prisoner, Jack. It is very bad. ’ ‘Yes,’ she agreed, but her manner was a degree less warm. Not a word was uttered for some time, nor any sound heard except the stilled sobs of the unfortunate mother. We were alike.
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