" "Depend upon it, Sir. I wish she wouldn’t look like that at us over her glasses. “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. We'll have him yet. I cannot be intimate—’ stressing the word with a deep look ‘— with one I feel to be a stranger. His body had been maimed many times.
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