“Do you think it is fair of you to persecute me just now?” “It is not persecution, Anna,” he answered gently. She stared out of the paned glass window, watching the trees being blown bare by the gale force. 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.
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