She paced restlessly to the door and back again, biting her tongue on the hot words begging to be uttered. "For the caption!" replied Jackson, coolly drawing a brace of pistols from his pockets. Somewhere you may stumble upon a clew to his identity. "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. “How could it not have hurt?” His analytical side started putting in overtime.
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