She heard his voice screaming her name into the twilight as she fled, his cries trailing like banners, weaving through the breeze that had begun to gently stir the dew on the ground. “One is always playing the surgeon, one kills always the thing one loves best. “Sir John is not at all that sort. ‘You don’t favour her, bar the black hair. 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. I want to hammer myself against all this that pens women in.
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