The salt air was fresher than the stale air in the manor. "Hist!" exclaimed Jack. He leaned forward to better drink her in. "It's wretched enough, indeed, Sir," rejoined the widow; "but, poor as it is, it's better than the cold stones and open streets. 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. "You may die afterwards as soon as you please," retorted Jonathan; "but live till then you shall.
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