This unexpected interpolation might spoil the efficacy of all that had gone before. 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. “Veronique!” she cried with a rising intonation, though never before had she called Ann Veronica anything but Miss Stanley, and seized her and squeezed her and kissed her with profound emotion. But now it’s beads by the cask—like the hold of a West African trader.
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