"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 must have heard—have you—oh, tell me, won’t you?” she begged. The youth produced a crumpled-up card from his waistcoat pocket. She kicked both of her legs with the force of a bull, sending a blow into Rhea’s borrowed legs. “My dear girl,” he said, in a tone of patient reasonableness, “you are a mere child. Lucilla clearly adored her betrothed, anyone could see that. Before very long I hope to have definite work.
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