’ Roding gave a bark of derisive laughter and left the room. I want to get away. I swore I would bring your husband to the gallows,—would plunge you in such want, such distress, that you should have no alternative but the last frightful resource of misery,—and I also swore, that if you had a son he should share the same fate as his father. He's an interpretative genius, if there ever was one. The rainstorm, short-lived, began to subside.
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