To be jeune demoiselle, it is not always convenient. “I have waited for this,” he said, and stood quite still, looking at her until the silence became oppressive. “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. ’ ‘Merci,’ she sighed and, surrendering at last to his oft-proffered aid, allowed her head to droop onto his chest.
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