Wait a second. "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've always been more or less music-mad. Listen. I knew it. The Night-Cellar. Wood could stand it no longer. Don’t say anything, she thought to herself, say nothing more, Martin. “My dear child,” he said, “with me you need have no apprehension.
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