“Your name and address in his pocket was no delusion,” he said sharply. “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. And when there is no longer any need to use it, why then, enough you say—and throw it away. Part of her even believed that her mother would have wanted her to stop feeling guilty and to be happy. Your career at the bar had given you a command of language, also a self-control not vouchsafed to us ordinary mortals.
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