“Read this, John. One day her mother swept into the bedroom of the family townhouse, sweeping across the floor with a bundle in her arms. The first of these, the Press Room, a dark close chamber, near Waterman's Hall, obtained its name from an immense wooden machine kept in it, with which such prisoners as refused to plead to their indictments were pressed to death—a species of inquisitorial torture not discontinued until so lately as the early part of the reign of George the Third, when it was abolished by an express statute. 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. ” “Did I?” she said. He was disquieted.
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