Two hours had come and gone during this tantalizing occupation. “I find it very hard to write this letter. Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. She fled. “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. “I should like you to come here,” she said.
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