I swore I would bring your husband to the gallows,—would plunge you in such want, such distress, that you should have no alternative but the last frightful resource of misery,—and I also swore, that if you had a son he should share the same fate as his father. The rich, heavy food sat in her stomach like so many soft pebbles. I want you to think of me just as if I was a man, and quite outside marriage altogether. Those were dreams. We’ll find a way to survive. With this view he struck off into a narrow street on the left, and soon entered a small alehouse, over the door of which hung the sign of the "Welsh Trumpeter. I just suppose it isn’t worth the trouble. Leaving the library by the same door she had first used to enter it earlier that day, she crossed the two little antechambers and moved on through the rooms.
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