“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. “I’m not going to college, John. "He has heard of your wonderful escapes, and wishes to see what you're like. It has been only the sort of nonsense which passes lightly enough between half the men and women in London. By and by—as the paroxysm subsided and he became motionless—she stole back to the bungalow to wait.
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