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. He was perched on the very edge of the leather seat of the coach, his threecornered hat twisting nervously in his hands, and from time to time he passed a tongue over dry lips. A man's laced hat,—whether adopted from the caprice of the moment, or habitually worn, we are unable to state,—cocked knowingly on her head, harmonized with her masculine appearance. He had a wild impulse to shout. “Go it, miss!” cried one. The Bitchster strikes again. "And when I further tell you," continued Jack, "that, after yourself and my mother, I am the next heir to the estates of my grandfather, Sir Montacute Trenchard, you will perhaps own that my caution is sufficiently disinterested. And one must—some of it must slip through one’s fingers. Mr. I just suppose it isn’t worth the trouble. As the night advanced, Mr. Groping their way through one or two dark and mouldy-smelling vaults, the party ascended a flight of steps, which brought them to the hall. I wanted to speak to you first.
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