‘To begin with,’ he said, ‘allow me a very tiny intimacy. 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 there was no feeling of remorse; there was only the sensation of exaltation. This is my first venture over here. She cried out his name in ecstasy. Even the love of a mother does not sway him. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self.
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