The gallant woollen-draper was now in his thirty-sixth year. She got home every night in time to cook supper and it was good money. Brown was no fool, and he understood the sudden onus of the other children to share the limelight. "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.
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