“MY DEAR DAUGHTER,” it ran,—“Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. ‘Can you not open it?’ she cried. ‘I knew you would be furious. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘You should have gone to Charvill. I will do my utmost. I make no apology for not being with you now.
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