‘Perhaps I could indeed rescue you if only you would confide in me. The doctor said you wrote. We were to ransom you, then we would fake your death, play as if the kidnappers had executed you. 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. Giles's round-house. She's fine. Take, if you please, your own pistol. "I see," rejoined Hogarth, rapidly sketching a file, which he placed in the hands of the picture.
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