" "Why how's this?" exclaimed Jonathan. '—'Oh! yes we are,' says he. It's two hundred pounds. "Begone, wretch!" cried the mother, stung beyond endurance by his taunts; "or I will drive you hence with my curses. I've a shrewd guess where he's taken refuge; but I'll ferret him out. Everything, Miss Miniver said, was “working up,” everything was “coming on”—the Higher Thought, the Simple Life, Socialism, Humanitarianism, it was all the same really. 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.
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