"Stow it, Nab!" exclaimed Quilt, angrily; "the kinchen's awake. "The door!—the door!—death!" he added, as he tried the handle, "it is locked—and I am unarmed. I'm heading for bed. 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. What is your father's business?" The question was an impertinence, but Ruth was not aware of that. We’ll go. hopelessly, and it made me desperate. Wood heard the cry.
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