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Not a scar but has its history. 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. He tried again. A common rage flushed their faces. No breakfast, he’s had no dinner, hardly a mouthful of soup— since yesterday at tea. Day after day she pounded him with curses, saying that her mother looked down on him from Heaven and sent a curse, to which he laughed. I wonder if you will mind very much when I tell you they were suggested by you.
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