Nevertheless, she was still fighting. "Your son is a lad of spirit, Mr. 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 gasped with pain, but she did not release her grip. Just beyond there would be her heart's desire. "You will never leave me," sobbed the poor woman, straining him to her breast. Mr. Here was a hole as wide as a church-door.
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