‘Aye, sir. Straw and other combustibles being collected, were placed in the middle of the audiencechamber. Gerald reached out a hand to stop her. 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 beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn.
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