take your choice.

So Rachel Minchin was supported from the court before the round eyes of
a hundred or two of her fellow-creatures, in the pitiable state of one
who has been condemned to die, and not set free to live. It was as
though she still misunderstood a verdict which had filled most faces
with incredulity, but none with an astonishment to equal her own. Her
white face had leaped alight, but not with gladness. The pent-up emotion
of the week had broken forth in an agony of tears; and so they half led,
half carried her from the court. She had entered it for the last time
with courage enough; but it was the wrong kind of courage; and, for the
one supreme moment, sentence of life was harder to bear than sentence of
death.

In a few minutes the court was empty--a singular little theatre of pale
varnish and tawdry hangings, still rather snug and homely in the heat
and light of its obsolete gas, and with as little to remind one of the
play as any other theatre when the curtain is down and the house empty.
But there was clamor in the corridors, and hooting already in the
street. Nor was the house really empty after all. One white-haired
gentleman had not left his place when an attendant returned to put out
the lights. The attendant pointed him out to a constable at the door;
both watched him a few moments. Then the attendant stepped down and
touched him on the shoulder.

The gentleman turned slowly without a start. "Ah, you're the man I want
to see," said he. "Was that the Chief Warder in the dock?"

"Him with the beard," said the attendant, nodding.