Tell her, that more than once, when about to commit some desperate offence, I have been restrained by her gentle image. “I was sick of the make-believe. "Open my heart, Father of Mercy!" she murmured, in a humble tone, and with downcast looks, "and make me sensible of the error of my ways. I didn't mean it. Soot was everywhere, for the lamp would not stay trimmed in the gale. She had slept badly at first in a long chair next to the fire waiting for him to return, but caught on after that.
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