"Who isn't it like?" he asked, endeavouring to gain possession of the drawing, which, af the sound of his footstep, she crushed between her fingers. 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. It doesn't annoy me; it only disturbs me. They had been playing tennis, with his manifest intention looming over her.
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