So perfect was the illusion, that he could almost fancy he heard the solemn voice of the ordinary warning him that his race was nearly run, and imploring him to prepare for eternity. ” “It isn’t precisely faults,” said Ann Veronica. She thought of how tired she was, how exhausted, how hungry. She had never said anything so horrible to anyone in her life. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. Conscience was always digging sudden pits for his feet and common sense ridiculing his fears.
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