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. I am on my way to an aunt who lives in Hartford, Connecticut. The primitive superstition of his Puritan forbears was his; and before this the buckler of his education disintegrated. "Why not?" "I'll tell you," cried a deep voice from the back of the bed.
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