Sheila wouldn’t allow me to date a boy even if he was only fifteen—I mean sixteen, like I am, you see. 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. She was silent, the ghost of a fading smile passed from her lips. After all, his was a pleasant face, and a pleasant voice, and very likely Annabel had behaved badly.
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