He sat up in his chair again, the colour came back to his cheeks. I’m a Socialist, Miss Stanley. You seemed, he thought, to have some grievance which you would not explain and which he thought must arise from a misunderstanding. "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 leaned towards her. ” She picked at her sandwich idly. But it sounds too real to be imagined.
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