This man was apparently not sure whether he was Meysey Hill or not. “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. To find the true father at the expense of the beautiful fairy tale Ruth had woven around the woman in the locket was an intolerable thought. —Give me the letters, my love," she added aloud, and in her most winning accents; "they're some wicked forgeries.
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