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. “A ballot-box, you know,” he said, “is very largely just a box. ” Anna laughed, gave in and with deft fingers created order out of chaos. He watched her, savoring her curious attention. The houses loomed progressively larger as one strode up the block, growing from ranch to two-story, from squat 1950's modern to stately 1890's palace. This done, he unloosed the pulley, and the ponderous machine, which resembled a trough, slowly descended upon the prisoner's breast. He was the social order; he was law and wisdom. . . Furious shouting, and the thunder of running feet. In a few minutes, an appalling change was perceptible. He was nearly wincing. When he came to a certain sentence in Brendon’s letter he stopped short and looked up at her.
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