Here was one of those Americans who would make him breathless before sundown. Blotted out—Love! With infinite care, through nearly a thousand pages, her father had obliterated the word Love. "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. And then if some day Capes wanted her—saw fit to alter his views upon friendship.
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