Fame of any sort was folly and she knew better. “Your name and address in his pocket was no delusion,” he said sharply. And she was as shrewd as they come. Perhaps he had heard of this Enschede. A door, it may be remembered, opened from Wild's dwelling into this yard. “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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