She succumbed to cancer of the breast at age forty-three, it was slow and wasting. Here was the place behind the shed where she had used to hide from Roddy’s persecutions, and here the border of herbaceous perennials under whose stems was fairyland. "And who is this Van Gal—Gal—what's his outlandish name?" "Van Galgebrok," replied the widow. “Looks like old times here, I see. . " "Quite the contrary," rejoined the woollen-draper, laughing good-humouredly. The sing-song girl rose and meekly pattered out of the office into the night. She formed a wild resolution, and, lest she should waver from it, she set about at once to realize it. You must live for me. Her feathered hat fell from her head and down her back, and she felt fingers writhing in the mass of her hair and caressing the flesh of her neck beneath so that she shivered uncontrollably. A pig, yes, a little. .
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