She was in one of her old walking-dresses, her hair was done in an unfamiliar manner, she wore a wedding-ring, and she looked as if she had been crying. ‘Signed by a priest at Le Havre, so it must be true. No hair to fall awry, no powder to displace, no ruffles to crush; men are lucky. “I do mean that,” she declared. I do not desire to extenuate my guilt—far less to defend it; but I would show you, and such as you —who, happily, are exempted from trials like mine—how much misery has to do with crime.
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