It was an unspoken curfew in the Beck house on week nights. Sheila grabbed the gun and laughed hysterically, brandishing the weapon and baying like a bear. I never forgive an injury. 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. "Somebody ought to get hold of that young man," said Prudence, grimly, as she nodded in Spurlock's direction.
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