She had never dreamed of such decadence, never imagined that young people could be so happy and healthy. He wore a threecornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat. Gina, the eleven year old, just couldn’t take it and she ran away. “It is very doubtful,” he said. "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. ‘I am not French in the least, bête.
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