Something tells me I am rushing on greater danger. So, one day, because God was wroth, her mother ran away with a blackguard, and died in the gutter, miserably. Coarse as were the ruffian's notions of feminine beauty, he could not be insensible to the surpassing loveliness of the fair creature, who had thus solicited his attention. As she averted her gaze, a terrible idea crossed her.
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