Without turning or looking in his direction she leaned forwards, her head supported upon her fingers, her elbows upon her knees. Once or twice she commented upon it, but she knew that it was resultant of his fear of her impending departure. “Do tell me all about it. I give you the plain, unadulterated truth. I think not, Annabel. Anyhow, that is how things are. “You must tell me the truth, and I will see that no harm comes to you. Yours?" The stranger hesitated. But it was not adieu, so she promised her old nurse. 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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