Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. "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. Already she had sent him twenty pounds, and never written to explain to him why it was she had not sent it back sharply directly he returned it. Bu I can speak to that point.
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