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It had thrust her back with an undignified scuffle, with vulgar comedy, with an unendurable, scornful grin. Sir John felt that after all forty-five was not so very old. His heart was beating, but faintly and slowly, with ominous intermissions. “Shit happens, John. Wood hadn't struck me. "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. Parbleu, but I will certainly kill him this time.

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