‘What, is Nicholas dead?’ He saw the two of them exchange glances and an instinct of danger rose up. 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. Let us be gone. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. But if you do not leave this room I must. What else could he do? You can’t kick up a scene on the spur of the moment in the face of such conflicting values as he had before him.
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