Filled as he was with conflicting emotions, any stretch of silence would be dangerous. "Mother!" cried the son, "help!" "What is this?" shrieked Lady Trafford, raising herself on the couch, and extending her hands towards him. "Shoot him! shoot him! Put him out of hish mishery," cried the Jew. She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son.
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