Next to the executioner stood his wife—the former Mrs. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. He too was flushed and ruffled; one side of his collar had slipped from its stud and he held a hand to the corner of his jaw. He had a handsome, jolly-looking face; stood six feet two in his stockings; and measured more than a cloth-yard shaft across the shoulders—athletic proportions derived from his father the dragoon.
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