On the left lay the heights of Hampstead, studded with villas, while farther off a hazy cloud marked the position of the metropolis. 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. What would you? I cannot fight them all. There's something queer about that young man; but we'll never be able to find out what it is. Edward Bribble stood between them with an open book.
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