The slack cloth of her habit caught on a curlicue in the carved back of the pew in front, pulling her suddenly about. "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. While I am talking about your friends, I feel—I think you ought to know how I look at it. ” She replied. He was a fool. Presently she was again in that dreadful tavern of the Thénardiers. "We'll see that," replied Jonathan. She could not apply it in this instance because she was not sure the application would be correct. Not that there had ever been any hope of that. She knew the story only imperfectly, and followed it now with a passionate and deepening interest.
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