You must dispose of the goldsmith's note I gave you yesterday, as soon as you arrive at Rotterdam. " "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. At this moment, the landlord of the Crown, a jovial-looking stout personage, with a white apron round his waist, issued from the house, bearing a large wooden bowl filled with ale, which he offered to Jack, who instantly rose to receive it. Talked about his years, his position and his constituents, and always sneaked off back to his hotel just when the fun was going to begin.
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