“Lucy!” He whispered into her ear beneath a dusty curtain cloud. Tell me a story—with apple-blossoms in it—about people who are happy. “Why should I bear the burden of your wickedness? Who knows what might come of it? I shall permit nothing of the sort. Wood, despair will come over me; and, dear as this babe is to me, far dearer than my own wretched life, which I would lay down for him any minute, I have prayed to Heaven to remove him, rather than he should grow up to be a man, and be exposed to his father's temptations—rather than he should live as wickedly and die as disgracefully as his father. But at least it gave her more time. Suddenly the Wastrel took hold of the edge and flung the table aside.
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