She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. People had started filling the hall: instrumentalists, overly conscientious parents. She loved the market, the horses trotting about, the bishops forced to be on the same road with old washer-women, the fools begging for a Florin or a ducat. Jack, meanwhile, heard, the shouts, and, though alarmed by them, held on a steady course.
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