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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. ‘How famous. I think you will find that his story will be believed, whatever I say; and in any case, if he is going to stay on here, I shall have to go away. She put out her hands to avoid his embrace. If only sometimes he would grow angry at her, impatient! But his tender courtesy was unfailing; and under this would be the abiding bitterness of having mistaken gratitude for love. She had suddenly become as the jewels of the Madonna, as the idol's eye, infinitely beyond his reach, sacred.
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