Their small talk continued. Next to the executioner stood his wife—the former Mrs. To make Ruth pay for it! He wanted to get away, into some immense echoless tract where he could give vent to this wild laughter which tore at his vitals. Arrived at the audience-chamber, he set down the light upon a stand, threw open the door, and announced in a loud voice, but with the perfect intonation of the person he represented,—"Sir Rowland Trenchard. Spit of your mother. ‘Why do you stand there? Take him up, and bring him out at once.
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