Beyond the steps was a pole-chair in readiness. Next to the executioner stood his wife—the former Mrs. "Where are you going?" cried Thames, who, though wholly disencumbered, was scarcely able to keep up with him. " "Not now, my love—not now," entreated Wood. He has no imagination, no real generosity. "Swear that you will do this," she cried. Good night!" She pressed his hand and went out.
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