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. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. ‘She’s an eviltempered little termagant, yes, but there’s no malice aforethought. It engulfed them in black, white, and gray. They shall hear of me no more. ‘She won’t.
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