“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 was a lovely girl, attired in deep mourning, and having an expression of profound sorrow on her charming features. We middle-aged fools and we old fools can no longer dream. He was daring enough to have seized and carried him off before the whole congregation, but he preferred waiting. "They shan't have the opportunity," replied Kneebone.
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