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. “I repeat, gentlemen,” he said, in an ominously low tone, “what of it?” Drummond shrugged his shoulders. You know very well that you took from my easel David Courtlaw’s study of me, and sent it to Cariolus. “By God! Ann Veronica,” he said, sighing deeply.
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