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. “You are mine, Annabel, and nothing shall ever make me give you up. It occurred to her that it was absurd and wrong to be so continuously thinking of one engrossing topic, and she made a strenuous effort to force her mind to other questions. She dragged the broken bottle across her carotid artery, creating an inch-deep gash upon her throat. ‘She hasn’t said so, but I presume Valade had got hold of all the useful papers,’ Gerald went on. “It’s okay, Michelle. Do you know what? You're some sea goddess and you're only fooling us. Surely she could ignore him. But he was now too deeply moved to trace a certain unsatisfactoriness to its source in a mixture of metaphors.
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