Lucy ate without passion. She had time in the afternoons to do crewelwork and embroidery, no longer occupied by the constant spinning of wool. I will go to-night. She did not want particularly to know what had caused his agony, what had driven him back to the old coat. ‘I do not know him. "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.
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