"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. " "Ja—ja," returned the Hollander. "'Tis a cruel thing you've done, lad. “I suppose there’s no way of getting a decent income—independently. In Wych Street Owen Wood did dwell; A carpenter he was by trade, And money, I believe, he made. They had scarcely gained the adjoining cellar when Jonathan and the Jew rushed past in the direction of the vault. And now— I suppose I should be considered too old.
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