The Times slipped from his fingers. The manager conceded that he saw, that his original diagnosis was at fault. Just as the attendants were preparing to lower the corpse into the earth, Jack fell on his knees beside the coffin, uttering the wildest exclamations of grief, reproaching himself with the murder of his mother, and invoking the vengeance of Heaven on his own head. "Write as I dictate," he cried, placing a pen in the jailer's hand and a pistol to his ear. Men are always doing it, and if you set up to be a man—” “No, it’s absolutely out of the question, Mr.
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