"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. ’ Emile reached out both hands and grasped her shoulders. You are infatuated. I have never wept since that day. Chapter Seven ‘Oh, my God,’ burst from Gerald. You may go back, Marthe. Her heartbeat quickened. The oranges were of the Syrian variety, small but filled with scarlet honey. It was an excuse, dredged up on the spur of the moment to cover a slip.
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