Figg?" said Jack, peevishly. 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. But she was relentless. “Did I do something wrong?” He asked. Their conversation degenerated again and again into a strain of self-congratulation that would have irked an eavesdropper. I don’t know. Papillon would have broken him down; anything tender would have sapped his will; and like as not he would have left the stool and rushed into the night. His face darkened.
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