The brown house, almost exactly the same as the Beck’s, turned black as pitch in the gloom. The splendid voices sang on from phase to phase of love’s unfolding, the ship drove across the sea to the beating rhythm of the rowers. 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. These were so outside her experience that she found it possible to thrust them almost out of sight by saying they would be “all right” in confident tones to herself.
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