settled itself in her bowels and made her writhe.
But was it her fault if she had done what she had done?
Then she fell with her bare knees on the floor and tried to pray. If she had that faith that transports mountains, would God, Christ, the virgin, not take pity on her, work a miracle in her favour and undo what was done?
As she prayed from her innermost soul, she felt that she had the faith, but the poo of blood did not disappear from her bed, she felt no change within her.
And although this man had taken her against her will, could she bear the world's contumely if her story was to be known? Could she bear her disgrace, she, universally considered so proud, so haughty, she, who belonged to one of the oldest and noblest families of the town? But perhaps her guilt—her innocent guilt—might not be known; she would see her lover once more and beg him on her knees to spare her further shame, and leave the town for ever.
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