She pulled him down by his lapels and arched her head readily towards his neck. Of what was she thinking? She must rescue herself. 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. They bickered frequently now as Gianfrancesco protested the prices of things like funeral candles and poultices to comfort the dying. Towards this box Sharples directed his steps, and, unlocking a hatch in the door, disclosed a recess scarcely as large, and certainly not as clean, as a dog-kennel.
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