Wood fancied he recognised. "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. Into one of these he waded and rolled and rolled, despite her commands. It seemed to her the last desperate attack upon the universe that would not let her live as she desired to live, that penned her in and controlled her and directed her and disapproved of her, the same invincible wrappering, the same leaden tyranny of a universe that she had vowed to overcome after that memorable conflict with her father at Morningside Park. ‘Good God! Everett Charvill, as I live. " Here she began to blubber loudly for sympathy. " "I'll excuse it nevertheless," returned the little damsel, affectionately extending her hand to him.
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