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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. I’ve accustomed myself to think of you— as if you were like every other girl who works at the schools—as something quite outside these possibilities. Each of my scholars thinks it his own shirt. She answered in whispers, for there was the white arm of a woman in the next box peeping beyond the partition within a yard of him. You must be misinformed, Mr.
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