The fates are never so kind to me. 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. She gave me an impression of a sort of patched quilt; little bits of patterned stuff coming up again and again. “What are your objections?” she said. Ruth flashed in and out of the sunshine; and he took note of the radiant nimbus above her head each time the sunshine touched her hair.
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