"Oh God! she is dying," exclaimed Jack in a voice suffocated by emotion. 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. Saws, hammers, planes, axes, augers, adzes, chisels, gimblets, and an endless variety of tools were ranged, like a stand of martial weapons at an armoury, in racks against the walls. “Why should I bear the burden of your wickedness? Who knows what might come of it? I shall permit nothing of the sort.
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