“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 want her to get forward, to set her among people who'll understand what to do with her. The contact is disturbing; and we prefer going around the fact to facing it. But, in spite of his general insensibility to such matters, Quilt could not help commenting upon the delicious perfume wafted from the numerous flower-beds past which they were driving. But if that can possibly be done I want it to be done.
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