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 don’t think you need do that, Melusine—if I may call you so. You know—I wish I could roll my little body up small and squeeze it into your hand and grip your fingers upon it. Kind of knows it, too. We leave England to-night. But one of these days everything will click back into place.
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