Rain pounded the tin roof, and waterfalls obscured the pavilion into its own private 91 chamber. "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. "Your audacity passes belief," cried the latter, as soon as his surprise would allow him utterance.
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