The man was so radically bad—so naturally prone to wickedness—so utterly dead to the whispers of conscience—that he was a foul blot upon the face of nature.
He was a sort of wild beast, who waged ceaseless war against society.
It is indeed a sad thing to reflect upon that in this civilised country, with the means of education and moral training open to the poorest and humblest in the land, such monstrosities as Gregson and Charles Peace should have existence.
But we will not dwell further upon this painful theme. Gregson, as we have seen has paid the penalty of his crime.
The career of Peace it is our purpose to chronicle. In doing this it will be necessary, as this work progresses, to diverge occasionally to note the actions and doings of other groups of characters with whom Peace was more or less connected.
Charles Peace, when he had seen the last of Gregson, rose from his seat, and moved slowly towards the centre of the room, which was more than half-filled with sightseers.
The tall gentleman who had sat by his side during the execution also rose, and prepared to take his departure.
“This is a scene when once witnessed is not easily to be forgotten,” he observed to Peace. “I assume, sir, you are like myself, but too glad it is over.”
“I am, indeed, sir,” answered Peace, in oleaginous accents.
“You do not desire to remain longer?”