I will no longer be a burthen to those upon whom I have no claim, but compassion. 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. Get out your pad and pencil. He had nothing to guide him; for though the torches were blazing ruddily below, their gleam fell only on the side of the building. “You were really at Moulton House,” she exclaimed penitently.
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