His grey eyes burned under his shaggy eyebrows. "Thames!—Thames!" cried Winifred, rushing to the window. My only love is for my poor lost son. "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. Like a thorough-bred racer, he would sustain twice as much fatigue as a person of heavier mould. As though accidentally she swept her skirts from a chair close drawn to her own. "Not exactly," answered Jonathan, drily. It is to set me right with Winifred. You have taken upon your shoulders the burden of her misdeeds.
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