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. “Maybe I should have stayed home. And if sometimes I grow heady—and it's in the blood— remind me of this day when you took me out of hell—a thief. “That’s all very well when one isn’t the material experimented upon,” Ann Veronica had remarked. Proper enough now, when he could not help himself, but the habit would be formed; and when he was strong again it would become the normal role, hers to give and his to receive. I suppose if one were to love some one, one would feel doubtful.
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