At once. A film of dust lay upon it; the ink marks were ancient. Here we are absconding, pretending to be what we are not; shady, to say the least of it. "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. I’m not such a bad sort. "Nothing—nothing," she answered, bursting into tears.
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