"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. Look at me, and answer me one question. Shall I send him to Sir John?” Annabel was white to the lips, but her anger was not yet spent. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. "That's for Mrs. You need have no apprehensions about him, Sir Rowland. Three more people came to meet them at the door.
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