The manager conceded that he saw, that his original diagnosis was at fault. 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. That he was immolating Ruth on the altar of his conscience never broke in upon his thought for consideration. “Indeed, no,” he answered. Advancing to the middle of the chamber, he halted, drew himself up, and fixed his dark, expressive eyes, on Thames Darrell. Lucy slipped upstairs silently.
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