She had decided that she would begin with her pearl necklace. ‘What are you, a nincompoop? She was Nicholas’s wife, of course. Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. 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. Instead, she laughed, laughed with lips and eyes, laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks.
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