’ She set down her glass with a snap. Maybe half a year, counting this summer. " "And perish upon the gibbet," rejoined Jonathan contemptuously. Wood could stand it no longer. Dese ere not schouts, as you faind, but jonkers on a vrolyk; and if dey'd chanshed to keel de vrow Sheppard's pet lamb, dey'd have done her a servish, by shaving it from dat unpleasant complaint, de hempen fever, with which its laatter days are threatened, and of which its poor vader died.
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