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"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. She would always be going to and fro up the Avenue, getting glimpses of Ramage, seeing him in trains. "I should like to meet the man who would dare to gainsay it. I am tired, and I want to be alone. Full twenty highwaymen blithe and bold, Rattled their chains in that dungeon old; Of all that number there 'scaped not one Who carved his name on the Newgate Stone. “Do you think it is fair of you to persecute me just now?” “It is not persecution, Anna,” he answered gently. So I fear there's little chance of any one getting it. What a wonderful world it is!" Music.
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