Wood,—Winifred fainted in the arms of a female attendant,—and Wood standing beside them almost in a state of distraction. ’ He sat up. “Not at all. "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. The door closed softly upon her. On reflection, it occurred to him that he might, perhaps, be able to loosen the iron fillet; a notion no sooner conceived than executed. Her heartbeat quickened. "Farewell!" cried Jack, embracing them. Kneebone, who had drained his glass to the restoration of the house of Stuart, and the downfall of the house of Hanover, more frequently than was consistent with prudence, consented; and the trio set out for Wych Street, where they arrived in the jolliest humour possible.
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