And for twelve years he has been so; until his long security, well-nigh obliterating remembrance of the deed, has bred almost a sense of innocence within his breast. 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. Time after time he reminded her of how powerless she would be without him, how unkind the world was towards single women. ‘Get the swords!’ ‘I’ll see to him.
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