“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. ‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked, assuming a fearful accent. His countenance was almost as white and rigid as that of the corpse by his side. “Can you take any from me?” “No, I won’t do that. ” “Well?” “Sir John came to me—that you know—and you can guess what I told him.
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