"At present under the care of his preserver—one Owen Wood, a carpenter, by whom he was brought up. There was a new softness in her eyes, a hesitation, a timidity about her manner which was almost pathetic. And, though neither peace nor innocence can be restored to my bosom; though tears cannot blot out my offences, nor sorrow drown my shame; yet, knowing that my penitence is sincere, I do not despair that my transgressions may be forgiven. And I’ve read, and thought, and guessed, and looked—until MY innocence—it’s smirched. Lucy aimed the firearm at Rhea’s chest. Only you good ones— shirk.
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