Each manuscript was like the other: the same lovely treatment of an unlovely subject. He panted for a moment with unuttered replies, and then, with a scornful gesture, got up and left the cell. I swore I would bring your husband to the gallows,—would plunge you in such want, such distress, that you should have no alternative but the last frightful resource of misery,—and I also swore, that if you had a son he should share the same fate as his father.
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