A slow anger burned in the man. The beautiful gowns and the flashing bare shoulders and arms of the women had disturbed and distressed her. 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. The sense of publicity, of people coming and going about them, kept them both unemotional. I tell you that I love you, Anna, and I believe that you love me. But I’m thinking as how I’d best report to the major over this here shooting. "If any one's to blame, it's me.
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