“You see, it comes after all,” she continued, “from certain original convictions which have become my religion. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. ‘That’s why I never told Joan Ibstock that you were still with me when I wrote. At nine o'clock, the sheriffs arrived, followed by their officers and javelin-men. I've watched this lad—this Sheppard—from infancy; and, though I have apparently concerned myself little about him, I have never lost sight of my purpose. She had become unashamed of her nudity, altogether unfocused on her appearance. She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. ” There was a moment’s silence.
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