’ Mrs Ibstock’s lips tightened and she looked away a moment. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. "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 will torture yourself and torture her all through life; but in the end she will pour the wine of her faith into a sound chalice.
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