The poor wretch, driven by desperation to the commission of a crime which her soul abhors, is no more beyond the hope of reformation than she is without the pale of mercy. Dizzily, she grabbed at the mantel for support and, resting her head on her hands, paid no heed to a betraying sound behind her—until an unexpected arm encircled her. Well, after a time there came a fever in my blood. ‘Lord, no! I’ve a better regard for my skin, I thank you. Does HE know I keep you?.
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