"I mean what I say," replied Jonathan. ‘Aye, that she was. Tell me a story—with apple-blossoms in it—about people who are happy. “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. You won’t want to be late the first evening, and it’s ten minutes past seven now.
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