” To her relief, Trodger sent one of his men posthaste to London with this missive, while the other went to fetch the horse, having been given precise directions on how to negotiate the passage so that he might find it at the other end. 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. She heard their feet and muffled voices. The real ‘Alcide’,” she wound up with a faint smile across the table at him, “is here. He could imagine it even if he could not feel it. He shivered and looked behind as he stepped into his hansom. Still, here we are in this dingy, foggy city. We'll lather him with mud, shave him with a rusty razor, and drench him with aqua pompaginis. A gust of irrational impatience blew through her being.
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