He pulled on his pants, his yellow shirt with the ridiculous horse logo, his brown socks, and shoes. He was alert, well-groomed, and yet—perhaps in contrast with the more volatile French type—there was a suggestion of weight about him, not to say heaviness. Mr. Ireton rushed forward to open the wicket for him. ’ ‘But you are bleeding like a pig,’ came the frantic response. Here Marvel, the executioner, who was in attendance, was commanded by Wild to tie his thumbs together, which he did with whipcord so tightly, that the string cut to the bone.
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