" He approached the bed and laid his palm on the patient's forehead, and nodded. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. When the lad is fit to be moved, we’ll bring him home. Stanley regarded him through his glasses with something approaching animosity. "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. 8 or 1. Either you have had to love people or hate them—which is a sort of love, too, in its way—to get anything out of them.
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