A knot of three policemen in conflict with her staggered toward Ann Veronica’s attendants and distracted their attention. If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. "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. ” “How delightful!” exclaimed Anna. Then a surge of rage welled up. .
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