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“Glaciers?” she said. Perhaps what urged her interest in the young man's direction was the dead whiteness of his face, the puffed eyelids and the bloodshot whites. She knew now that he never would. It was wonderful to think this thing had lived, had felt and suffered. 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. Rubbishy novels and pernicious rascals. His ideas about girls and women were of a sentimental and modest quality; they were creatures, he thought, either too bad for a modern vocabulary, and then frequently most undesirably desirable, or too pure and good for life. Annabel turned on the electric light and made her way into the sitting-room.
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