... Mister Morris. I'll tell you a story. There was a girl I knew who played horrible, awful, sometimes life-threatening pranks on the people who lived in the same house as her. She did horrible things, constantly, so much so the people began to hate her and actively wish for her demise. And she couldn't die, she'd just get a new body printed for herself, so why care, right?

... But she was alone. And nobody paid attention to her. The one person she'd cared for most was wasting away mentally. I was all she had. She was picked on for a few days, and eventually decided to start a cult and start hurting people back. She would never be dirtied again, she decided. So she murdered in the name of being clean.

Objectively, she was a horrible, awful person. She killed people. She ruined lives. She ran around with no remorse or care for even her own well-being. But deep down, she was a lonely girl with no friends and no one there for her. She was a product of her environment, a protagonist in a twisted story she couldn't stand.

That girl, Miss Wiltshire, is my daughter. And I love her anyway.

I would be a hypocrite if I didn't give Miss Halley the same chance. And I think you should too.