“Good,” he said, as he watched the colour come back to her cheeks. It stunned her. ” “You will shake hands with me, please,” she begged. Then he went back to his rooms and lit a cigar. Her father had determined on a new line. ‘But do you think I can blame you for this, Marthe?’ ‘I blame myself. "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 hurt the child. “I refuse.
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