‘That was one of my own clever stories. 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. She got up, as she had been told to do, at his appearance, and he amazed her by sitting down, according to custom, on her stool. Petite build, like herself. "'Sdeath!" cried Hogarth, aside to the poet. Then they deliberated whether Bernard Shaw ought to go into Parliament. Let—it—fall.
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