Poor Ruth: for a father, a madman; for a husband—a thief! Spurlock rocked his body slightly. But she had not reckoned with the etiquette of Canongate. "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. Melusine shrieked an imprecation, and ran the length of the aisle, searching for the weapon she had thrown. “By Jove!” he broke out, “one tries to take a serious, sober view. “Act three. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters.
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