She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. My heart cannot take it. And now her father said she must not go. So appalling was the sight, that even the murderers—familiar as they were with scenes of slaughter,—looked aghast at it. ‘I don’t want to hurt you any more.
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