And like that gospel it meant something, something different from its phrases, something elusive, and yet something that in spite of the superficial incoherence of its phrasing, was largely essentially true. Chapter XXX SIR JOHN’S NECKTIE Sir John, in a quiet dark travelling suit, was sitting in a pokey little room writing letters. "As it's getting late, and the porter may be gone to bed," he observed; "I'll take the pass-key, and let myself in. And now tell me what has happened to my poor mother?" "Ever since your last capture, and Thames's mysterious disappearance, she has been dreadfully ill," replied Winifred; "so ill, that each day was expected to be her last. She fell with a plop onto her rear end in the mud and sat dumbly like a statue, water eddying around her. Marvel, who, as he had helped to deprive her of her former husbands, thought himself in duty bound to offer to supply their place. He knocked on the doorframe. The bolder members in the House left their places to go lobbyward, grinning. "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.
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