’ She spread her hands. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. No; she'd never go back. ” Lucy welcomed her. “Often,” he repeated, a little heavily. “Michelle, I think that you are the victim of an extremely overactive imagination. 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.
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