“Mind my smoking?” said Roddy. "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. It is enough to make a man throw away canvas and brushes into the bottomless precipices, enough to make one weep with despair at his utter and absolute impotence. Be silent, I say, if you value his safety. They are the only happy women in the Orient. "Are you not content with the crimes you have committed, —but you must carry your villany to this point. I can’t imagine what possessed you, Veronica. You did not complain then that I personated you—no, nor when Sir John came to me in Paris, and for your sake I lied.
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