In the midst of them there was a cart with a man in it—and that man was Jack—my son Jack—they were going to hang him. He was way out of her league and it was downright odd that he had obliged himself to talk to her, let alone walk her home. As they left Florence, dying men and women still scrabbled through the streets, screams emanating from the rows of houses, beggars running up to the horses, sick children in their arms, their eyes bleeding, their noses running, begging to join them in their journey out. The first time, I overlooked the offence; but the second time, when I had planned to break open the house of his master, the fellow who visited you to-night,—Wood, the carpenter of Wych Street,—he betrayed me. He, who had faced the gale, would have been instantly stifled. ” There was a shout of laughter.
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