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. What do you think, Annabel?” “I don’t think they would,” she admitted. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. She’s a snob.
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