Annabel, I was lying. A film of dust lay upon it; the ink marks were ancient. She found herself in a phase of violent reaction against the suffrage movement, a phase greatly promoted by one of those unreasonable objections people of Ann Veronica’s temperament take at times—to the girl in the next cell to her own. 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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