“What else can happen?” asked Miss Miniver, with a little weak gesture at the glow. Of course there were goats. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. And what was singular she did not recount to the doctor that morning's adventure. "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 can’t afford to get behind. I consented to become Mrs. " "If I do, I care not," rejoined Wild; "I shall have lived to see you hanged.
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