"I'm dumb. Sensitive, aren’t they?” She chuckled. "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. I am something of an old fogey, Anna, I’m afraid, but if you treat me like this you will teach me to forget it. To many in that crowded solitude it came as an extraordinary relief. It gave her joy to see them laughing, even though she was unsure of what she had done wrong. The longing to talk to someone! But in the end she had gone to her room without giving in to the craving.
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