“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. But through the fault of that pig, who dared to call himself Valade and masquerade in society under her birthright. And when there is no longer any need to use it, why then, enough you say—and throw it away. She acted as her mother had taught her to. He was disquieted.
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