“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. ‘Ah, bah, it is enough,’ she cried, and turning, ran out of the room. I haven't much money; I don't know how much it is going to cost me to reach Hartford; so I fixed over a couple of my mother's dresses. She wondered wildly why she had stood up. ‘We may have to,’ Gerald answered thoughtfully, staring at the window to one side. She foraged about in her mind for some satisfying equivalent which would express in English this gurgling drone the Chinese called a language. Still, I am curious. It’s not like we’re getting married.
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