“You may go on with that work,” he said, “so long as you keep in harmony with things at home. 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 had made himself master of the layout of the house, that was plain. She was an indignant queen, no doubt she was alarmed and disgusted within limits; but she was highly excited, and there was something, some low adventurous strain in her being, some element, subtle at least if base, going about the rioting ways and crowded insurgent meeting-places of her mind declaring that the whole affair was after all—they are the only words that express it—a very great lark indeed.
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