Built and paved with stone, without beds, or any other sort of protection from the cold, this dreadful hole, accounted the most dark and dismal in the prison, was made the receptacle of such miserable wretches as could not pay the customary fees. She held out her hand for it, but Gerald smiled. ‘Very well, never mind. “If only I could afford another!” she thought regretfully. 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. . ’ Lady Bicknacre, resplendent in purple satin, and basking in her triumphantly full rooms—for it was obvious that her patronage of the refugees had set a quickly to be followed fashion—was all sorrow and sympathy when Gerald spoke of them. That night she found a ship bound to sail for the heathen nation called America.
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