Lady Ferringhall listened, and her cheeks grew pale. When my father died, and we were left alone in Jersey, I was quite a long time deciding whether I would go in for singing professionally or try painting. And, though neither peace nor innocence can be restored to my bosom; though tears cannot blot out my offences, nor sorrow drown my shame; yet, knowing that my penitence is sincere, I do not despair that my transgressions may be forgiven. She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. He grabbed her legs and threw the covers from the bed. I know why.
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