So, one day, because God was wroth, her mother ran away with a blackguard, and died in the gutter, miserably. “May I sit beside you?” “It’s a very difficult one,” said her aunt. 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.
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