’ ‘Fancy my old pa thinking you was a French spy. She were that miserable. A sinister thought edged in. Parbleu, but I will certainly kill him this time. "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. " "None whatever," replied the mob. He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn.
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