And, though it's a long time ago, I feel as sore on the subject as ever. "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. She used his own gun against him, a method that was occasionally cleaner than slitting throats when she got it right. I hoped for a family like the Becks and I waded through the system until I got them, so maybe life isn’t so damn hopeless after all. Mac—the old gossip—knew about everything going on in that part of the world; and if Enschede was anything up to the picture the girl had drawn, McClintock would have heard of him, naturally. You may enjoy your pride, your arrogance—in a coffin. “I’ve gotta go. All her pride raged at me.
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