He ushered them with an amiable flat hand into a minute apartment with a little gas-stove, a silk crimson-covered sofa, and a bright little table, gay with napery and hot-house flowers. 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. Once she reached the bamboo curtain, clutched at it and tore it down as his arms went around her waist. Try your luck with Jarvis Remenham—if you will.
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