“Hey, John. 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. Opening the door, he found it littered with straw, on which he threw himself, and instantly fell asleep. “This means a plunge. . ” Her father’s irony deepened.
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