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. "An idea has just occurred to me," said Gay, "which Jack's narrative has suggested. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. I put my foot down like—like adamant. And don't neglect my instructions this time.
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