She would be enduing this chap with attributes he did not possess, clothing him in fictional ruffles. The chromatic fiction with which he relieved his mind glanced but slightly at this aspect of life, and never with any quality of guidance. “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. "It was given me by poor dear Mrs. A fever of shame ran through her being.
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