"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. Hurry. The signs of the shops were carried to incredible distances. She had found it in 1988, the year of the stock market crash. But she had loved the man. "And now to dispose of our dead.
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