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. From where had he come, and why? An author! To her he would be no less interesting because he was unsuccessful. She complained of the crowded cities, dismayed that the people were repopulating them like rabbits. “Ruin me? Think of me with fondness? Are you dying of cancer or something?” He demanded. Wood, glancing angrily at her husband.
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