On the way he confessed. His legs were dreadfully swelled; his hands bruised; and his fetters occasioned him intolerable pain. There is not a soul in the inn but ourselves. This was what he missed. “That’s not. Then a bit of colour flowed into his sunken white cheeks. The idea of this sudden reluctance was elusive; the fact was evident but not the reason for it. 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.
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