She feasted reluctantly, partly out of wonder at the new function of her often elongated canines. She examined Michelle’s pale face. 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. The chair, meanwhile, with its unhappy load, was transported at a brisk pace to Newgate. There's a man dying—Captain Darrell. This done, he followed the course which Jack had just taken.
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