But he was a thief, a fugitive from justice. 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. Capes looked at one and not over one, spoke to one, treated one as a visible concrete fact. The great untrodden world was before her still, into which no one can pass alone. God had never answered any of her prayers. “I thought I saw her in town to-day,” he said.
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