"My chickens are hatched, or, at least, nearly so," replied Shotbolt, with increased merriment. “You are the type that I want to marry someday, you’ve got a beautiful body, such pretty eyes. "I did all for the best, as I'll explain. If you don’t like it, I won’t be mad, I promise. 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.
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