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The sergeant had not seen it for he understood nothing of what she told him. "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. She’s naïve, and yet uncannily shrewd at times, and you daren’t rely on anything she says. ” She said quietly. “I thought you wanted to have a talk to me,” she said. Sometimes—a lonely forlorn child—she had gone to him and put her arms around his neck. As the body was borne to the house in the arms of the farming-men, Mr. Think if your own mother was alive!” He paused, deeply moved. Crouching down, Gerald waited, hands at the ready. “Don’t think so,” Drummond answered. Sheppard, clasping him with a hand that burnt with fever, "I have been ill—dreadfully ill—I believe delirious—I thought I should have died last night—I won't tell you what agony you have caused me—I won't reproach you.
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