” Anna was bewildered. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. Also Lucy, who had been so much her friend. “What are you doing?” he asked. But some people have no consideration. “I wonder if they will seem altered,” she remarked for the third time. “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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