On Monday Charvill had still not returned, and the major duly presented himself at Mrs Chalkney’s house in Grosvenor Square, thanking his stars that his friend Roding would not be there to spoil sport. A quarter of an hour passed. 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. Wood strained his eyes to catch a glimpse of the flying skiff.
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