“MY DEAR MISS PELLISSIER,— “To-morrow the six months will be up. "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. He had an air of having told her a deep, personal secret. He spent the evening telling her stories of Greece as she sat in front of a roaring fire. He was every bit as much a pig as this Emile. Sheppard, fixing her glazing eyes upon him.
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