But you have, haven’t you?’ He tutted again. Here and there, a rectangular patch, darker than the rest, showed that some had been removed. John. Its parents have perished. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her. “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 stole her glances sideways like the rest of the women. She knew, too, she must not hesitate.
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