“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. With a rustle of her full lilac petticoats, Miss Froxfield turned back to Alderley. I don’t believe any one could have traced us here. I don't care how lonesome it is. " "This comes of fine feelings!" muttered Jonathan, contemptuously.
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