And, as he looked on her in her slender elegance of
form and gentlewomanly loveliness of face, a loveliness
intelligent and refined beyond that of most women, he felt borne
in on his consciousness the fact that here was one to be
respected. He fought against the impression. It was to him
preposterous, for she was one of that underworld against which he
was ruthlessly at war. Yet, he could not altogether overcome his
instinct toward a half-reverent admiration.... And, as the letter
proved, she had been innocent at the outset. She had been the
victim of a mistaken justice, made outcast by the law she had
never wronged.... His mood of respect was inevitable, since he
had some sensibilities, though they were coarsened, and they
sensed vaguely the maelstrom of emotions that now swirled in the
girl's breast.
To Mary Turner, this was the wonderful hour. In it, the
vindication of her innocence was made complete. The story was
there recorded in black and white on the page written by Helen
Morris. It mattered little--or infinitely much!--that it came
too late.
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