"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. You have watched all the uncouth creations of my brain come sprawling out upon the canvas, and besides, we have been companions. There you will be, in an inner temple. And while her son was reconveyed to prison the body of the unfortunate Mrs. The Pursuit 425 XXV. "I can't help thinking of it, Sir," answered the widow. She wanted to stay where she was; but tears were dangerous; the more she wept, the weaker she would become defensively.
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