“And so you have been thinking?” her father began, quoting her letter and looking over his slanting glasses at her. "All right. ” She picked at her sandwich idly. "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. A black silk furbelowed scarf covered her shoulders; and over the kincob gown hung a yellow satin apron, trimmed with white Persian. Leonardo was to me perhaps like a father, not a lover as you think. Martin came to the stage from his section, his own violin in hand.
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