“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. She never knew what became of her farmer after that. To even presume a lustful thought about her was to ask for one’s own death. " "Very right, my love," said Wood, "very sensibly remarked. ” “I began to be afraid you might not come at all. Why should she? she asked rebelliously.
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