With his tongue lolling and his flea-bitten stump wagging apologetically, he glanced from face to face to see if there was any forgiveness visible. Spurling in alarm. You have grown into my life, and I cannot tear you out. “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. She has no proof—yet. I didn't expect you home before that hour, Sir.
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