"My father!" exclaimed the young man, with an indignant flash in his eyes.
"No, no, no! I don't mean that.

But there is a curse that descends to the third and fourth generation," replied Mrs.Whitford, "and you have the legacy of that curse.

But it will be harmless unless with your own hand you drag it down, and this is why I ask you to abstain from wine.
Others may be safe, but for you there is peril." "A scarecrow, a mere fancy, a figment of some fanatic's brain;" and Ellis Whitford rejected the idea in a voice full of contempt.
But the pallor and solemnity of his mother's face warned him that such a treatment of her fears could not allay them.

Moreover, the hint of ancestral disgrace had shocked his family pride.
"A sad and painful truth," Mrs.Whitford returned, "and one that it will be folly for you to ignore.

You do not stand in the same freedom in which many others stand.