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. Are you sure you haven't mistaken the ward, Mr. . I'm a graybeard, an old bachelor; so I am accorded certain privileges. She handled it half fearfully, and set it carefully down again. It was painful to want him so much. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. They stood back together and stared at it.
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