“I ought to look up Gwen,” she said. That is why I came to London. Poor thing! how beautiful she looks! but how like death!" Deathlike, indeed, was the repose of the sleeper,—deathlike and deep. 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. But most of all, I wanted to love. ’ ‘Yes, but when I think about this, I do not think I can do so,’ she said candidly.
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