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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. The tapstress was full of curiosity; but she appeared more easy than the others. Ennison kicked it away with his foot. “You needn’t be worried,” she said quietly. She looked round wildly, as if seeking some source of help, as the boots halted at the front door and the shouting intensified. Partly, from your confessor; partly, from other sources. Stop it.
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