She was not a reversion to type, which intimates the primordial; she suggested rather the incarnation of some goddess of the South Seas. And now, when you come at last, you bring me this grandfather, and you dare to tell me I am like him. Sheppard, with a deep sigh, perceiving that her benefactor hesitated to pronounce the word. She savored the sweetness of his lips, all of his great youth and passion and longed for his innocence, his complete lack of the knowledge of terrible things. "My son," she murmured, wringing her hands piteously—, "my son the companion of thieves! My son in Jonathan Wild's power! It cannot be. "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.
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