Shotbolt," cried the turnkey, "I've good news for you. She reflected upon that with a thrill of terror that was also, somehow, in some faint remote way, gleeful. 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. His tongue was more ready, his wit more keen than usual. With a view to raise recruits for his corps, the warlike woollen-draper started for Lancashire, under the colour of a journey on business. We were going at a mad pace.
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