"Thank you, sir," said Spurlock, holding out his hand. Vorsack. She could tell that they too would find their legs jutting awkwardly from the petite furniture. "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. Immediately Spurlock began to chant one of these.
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