” “Don’t say that,” Sydney begged. What would it be without that safeguard?” Ogilvy pursued his own topic. She could smell the sweet girl child he had buried in the garage in autumn, 1 even under the frozen ground. "Had I not been the guilty wretch I am," he cried, bursting into an agony of tears, "she would never have died thus. Though within the last two days he had committed several heinous offences, and one of a darker dye than any with which the reader has been made acquainted, his breast was not yet so callous as to be wholly insensible to the stings of conscience.
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