‘Sapristi,’ he gasped. Sheppard staggered forward. 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. ‘Think I’m fool enough to do my business in a convent?’ he said scornfully.
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