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On the floor was a handkerchief, a little morsel of lace. “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 went to the theatre that night. It was only when they came into a square that daylight had a positive quality. "Very well," said Rachel, with a toss of her pretty head, "very well.
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