They went into Michelle's tiny bedroom, bare except for a dresser, a closet, and a miniscule single bed that resembled her own at the Becks. "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. Thames, look the door. And, though it's a long time ago, I feel as sore on the subject as ever. This chap's recovery all depends upon the care he receives. Michelle bypassed the ordering counter and surfed directly to their table.
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