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. His eyes never left her face. The hymnal lyrics had never stirred her; she had memorized and sung them parrotwise. This time she was indeed beaten. F. Ann Veronica found herself incompetent, undignified, and detestable, holding on desperately to a hardening antagonism to her father, quarrelling with him, wrangling with him, thinking of repartees—almost as if he was a brother.
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