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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. Wood in the deepest mourning. He sat down on the sill of the open window, folded his arms, and stared straight before him for a long time over the wilderness of tiles and chimney-pots into a sky that was blue and empty. He hadn't gambled or played the horses or hit the booze back there in little old New York….
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