‘Do you think I do not know? What am I doing here, do you think?’ ‘That’s just exactly what I’ve been asking myself,’ he returned. Then, very awkwardly, he took a stool and placed it at the end of Ann Veronica’s table, and sat down. But what did he know beyond these facts? Nothing, clearly. “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.
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