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Dickens, Charles, 1812-1870

"Barnaby Rudge: a tale of the Riots of 'eighty"

'
'What is the meaning of your canting words?' he answered roughly. 'Speak
so that I may understand you.'
'I will,' she answered, 'I desire to. Bear with me for a moment more.
The hand of Him who set His curse on murder, is heavy on us now. You
cannot doubt it. Our son, our innocent boy, on whom His anger fell
before his birth, is in this place in peril of his life--brought here
by your guilt; yes, by that alone, as Heaven sees and knows, for he
has been led astray in the darkness of his intellect, and that is the
terrible consequence of your crime.'
'If you come, woman-like, to load me with reproaches--' he muttered,
again endeavouring to break away.
'I do not. I have a different purpose. You must hear it. If not
to-night, to-morrow; if not to-morrow, at another time. You MUST hear
it. Husband, escape is hopeless--impossible.'
'You tell me so, do you?' he said, raising his manacled hand, and
shaking it. 'You!'
'Yes,' she said, with indescribable earnestness. 'But why?'
'To make me easy in this jail. To make the time 'twixt this and death,
pass pleasantly. For my good--yes, for my good, of course,' he said,
grinding his teeth, and smiling at her with a livid face.


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