“It is a hateful story. Whisky kills him suddenly; it does not sap him gradually. Hearing the noise of the scuffle, the tapstress, fancying it was Jack making an effort to escape, in spite of the remonstrances of the executioner, threw open the wicket. How she had coveted her mother’s beauty and sought to emulate it, if only to please her. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. Headed by Jonathan, all the turnkeys then repaired to the upper part of the jail, and, approaching the Red Room by a circuitous route, several doors were unlocked, and they came upon the scene of Jack's exploits. Poor little one. “It is nothing of any importance. They both listened intently.
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