There was a lapse of time, an interval of blackness; then he found his hand in hers and she was leading him at a run up the side of the mountain. He hated the taste of it. ‘Certainly you may have me under guard. "Shall I never banish those horrible phantoms from my couch—the father with his bleeding breast and dripping hair!—the mother with her wringing hands and looks of vengeance and reproach!—And must another be added to their number—their son! Horror!—let me be spared this new crime! And yet the gibbet—my name tarnished—my escutcheon blotted by the hangman!—No, I cannot submit to that. She came in while he was still in the throes, conviction battling with commonsense, his own apprehension. Instead, they appeared to be at the hygienic level of tramps’ lodging-houses. ‘I am perfectly devoted to him, as well he knows. “Your father is dead too, I believe,” he continued, “and your mother. ‘Rather would I die than fall in with such a plan.
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