"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. He turned his eyes and stared at Miss Garvice like one who wakes from a reverie, and then got up and strolled down the laboratory toward his refuge, the preparation-room. “Oh my God, what if she’s dead?” More giggling. "To-night, your ladyship?" ventured an elderly domestic. The hills surrounded her cave home protectively. The sun was setting in spectacular multicolored streams beyond Whitefield Park.
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