“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. As the Wastrel rushed, Spurlock sidestepped, swept the ball into his hand, set himself and threw it. ‘Let me tell you,’ went on the nun severely, ‘it would have been better for you if you had taken the veil. She did not want particularly to know what had caused his agony, what had driven him back to the old coat.
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