She was suddenly very aware of the room, the television still blaring, and the chill in the air. “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. Another horn now resounded from the further extremity of the thoroughfare; this was answered by a third; and presently a fourth, and more remote blast, took up the note of alarm. She turned to Lucilla, a plea in her face. My father died a year ago, by the way.
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