“My dear girl,” he said, in a tone of patient reasonableness, “you are a mere child. Just one thing more. ‘How do you do, my lord? I am Lucilla Froxfield. ‘One of your countrymen, perhaps?’ The girl clammed up, the moon of her white face staring up at him in the darkness. Plain, wide-mouthed, freckled, and ugly, she was an instantly jealous creature, her saving grace that she took no pains to mask her extreme dislike 47 of petite, pretty girls. ‘Valade, if you don’t mind. \"Do you mind if I sit with you?\" He asked as he followed her. She dropped a flower—it’s in my pocket-book now. We were hunting and were separated from the rest of the hunters, so I said, ‘There are ways for a man to escape his wife where no one is harmed. He did not have to. 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.
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