But you could have just as easily lost your womb in the Pestilence, and your life. They give themselves airs, but so it is. The poor wretch, driven by desperation to the commission of a crime which her soul abhors, is no more beyond the hope of reformation than she is without the pale of mercy. Once she had asked him: "Are you my father?" He had answered: "I am. “I’m d——d if I understand this,” he said thoughtfully. The blast once more swept over the agitated river: whirled off the sheets of foam, scattered them far and wide in rain-drops, and left the raging torrent blacker than before.
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