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. The Trenchard estates will likewise be mine, for Sir Rowland is no more, and the youth, Thames, will never again see daylight. “Looooo-ceeeeee!!” He yelled, sounding like Desi Arnaz. Then he released her hand, and sat back a little, appearing to concentrate his thoughts on her face.
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