"Leave the room," interposed Kneebone, angrily. We must wave our hands at the blue hills far away there and go back to London and work. "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. The stipendiary would have done it all very differently. ‘Not at all ladylike.
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