Folks don’t like ’em. 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. Every other wall comprised bookcases, except where the doors appeared. Very fascinating, though, trying to analyse the impulse. As it was, the mob went on alternately hooting and huzzaing as the names of Wild and Sheppard were pronounced, while some individuals, bolder than the rest, thrust their faces into the coach-window, and assured Jack that he should never be taken to Tyburn. I said to myself, ‘this will come. She came in now with an air of reserved solicitude. “Was it terrible for you after he died?” “Don’t worry yourself about it John. I'm one of those unfortunate duffers who have too much imagination—the kind who build their own chimeras and then run away from them.
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