—Give me the letters, my love," she added aloud, and in her most winning accents; "they're some wicked forgeries. They fell in a diapason of smashes. Ramage demurred. You came out like an ant for your nuptial flight. I overlooked the mechanical imperfections of your work, the utter lack of finish, the crudeness of your drawing. 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.
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