Death is a dignitary who when he comes announced is to be received with formal manifestations of respect, even by those most familiar with him.
his neck. It was attached to a st
behind his back, the wrists boun
seemed to plead against the answering murmurs of infinite
seemed to plead against the answering murmurs of infinit
never turned away without having paid a visit. The difference simply came to be that the visit was to Brooksmith. It took place in the hall, at the familiar foot of the stairs, and we didn’t sit down – at least Brooksmith didn’t; moreover it was devoted wholly to one topic and always had the air of being already over – beginning, as it were, at the end. But it was always interesting – it always gave me something to think about. It is true that the subject of my meditation was ever the same – ever ‘It’s all very well, but what will become of Brooksmith?’ Even my private answer to this question left me still unsatisfied. No doubt Mr. Offord would provide for him, but what would he provide? that was the gre
man stood upon a railroad bridge in northern Alabama,[1] looking down into the swift water twenty feet below. The man’s hands were behind his back, the wrists bound with a cord. A rope closely encircled his neck. It was attached to a stout cross-timber above his head and the slack fell to the level of his knees. Some loose boards laid upon the ties supporting the rails of the railway supplied a footing for him and his executioners – two private soldiers of the Federal army,[2] directed by a sergeant who in civil life may have been a deputy sheriff. At a short remove upon the same temporary platform
not manifested her presence by ringing her bell.
‘“We came in very quietly, that’s true,” conc
