“Will you tell Sydney that I will see him in the morning,” he said. And you’d better have her fetch in some food for the missie, an’ all. “Well?” she said. “I cannot conceive,” he said, “how any other occupation could ever have occurred to you. He tired of his popcorn and placed it under his seat. “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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