The prostitute’s attack was predictable, typical. "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. He could scarcely blame her. You need give yourself no more concern about Kneebone. "No, Sir Rowland," replied the attendant, "as you proposed to ride to Saint Albans to-night, I thought you might choose to see him yourself. Here's your health in a bumper, and wishing you a better husband than your first. There was no rush.
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