’ Joan nodded, her face still averted. This time there wasn't any doubt. 1703. "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. Save us!" he cried, as his glance accidentally alighted on the drawing, which Winifred had dropped in her agitation.
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