She felt the need to get dressed, sensing that his parents would be home soon. She could not look at him through an interval that seemed to her a vast gulf of time. ‘Alors, pig!’ she cried and lunged in quarte. 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. Some one may observe us. But she no longer felt Jacomo’s age, even if she looked it. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. After all, what can it matter? It was just to make sure. From the freshness of the stains, which grew more frequent as they approached the adjoining chamber, it was evident some violence had been recently perpetrated, and the carpenter's own blood froze within his veins as he thought, with a thrill of horror, that, perhaps on this very spot, not many minutes before his arrival, his adopted son might have been inhumanly butchered.
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