But, you see, I’m smirched. “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. Sheppard looked round, and exchanged kindly glances with several of those who addressed him. Hang the wench! Roding was right. The doleful procession at once assumed a festive character.
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