You see, the horse it does not belong to me, nor to the nuns. “Come,” she said. Prison was beastly. “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 if he read her thought, he spoke it aloud. Later on I could scarcely have forgiven you. There was a look in her eyes which puzzled him. “Really, Sir John,” she said, “I don’t know how to thank you. ’ He grinned.
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