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. She drifted, via Theobald’s Road, obliquely toward the region about Titchfield Street. “I came to London,” said Ann Veronica, “rather because of my own difficulty. Any one less courageous than himself would have abandoned the attempt from a conviction of its utter hopelessness; but, though it might for a moment damp his ardour, it could not deter him. ‘While you are making me this interrogation, my poor Jacques bleeds to death.
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