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The convicted walks like a duck. The feet shackled with an iron bar in handcuffs that tie the hands. Go through the rustic cobblestone strip. Some viewers laugh. Zoncera?? Nervousness?? corner hutch Who knows!. The inmate sits calmly on the bench. Supports the back and chest out. Look up. Then she leans over and looks, his hands between his knees abandoned open, a man who looks after the fire as water is heated to make the kill. Remains well four seconds. An NCO is crossed by a rope to the chest to kill him when the bullets will not roll on the ground. Di Giovanni turns his head from right to left and left to tie.
Look stiffly implementers. Emana will. If you suffer or not is a secret. But it remains so, stiff, proud. A difficulty arises. Fear of bullets corner hutch bounce makes the troops were ordered to retire a few steps and be perpendicular to the rifleman squad. Di Giovanni is straight, leaning back against the backrest. Above his head, on a strip of gray wall, soldiers move legs. Get chest. Is it for the bullets?
The bullets have written the last word in the body of the defendant. The face remains serene. Pale. The half-open eyes. A blacksmith hammers at the feet of the corpse. Removes rivets shackle and bar iron. A doctor corner hutch observes. Certifies that the offender has died. A man, who has come with tails and dancing shoes, retires with galley at the crown. It seems to leave the cabaret. Another says a bad word.
I see four guys pale as dead and disfigured that bite their lips; are: Gauna, La Razon, Alvarez, Last Minute, Enrique González Tuñón, Critical and Gomez of El Mundo. I'm as drunk. I think of those who laughed. I think at the entrance to the penitentiary should be a sign that read:
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