She was so interested, and this was such a relief from the trudging anxiety of her search for work, that she went on for a whole week as if she was still living at home. “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 helped herself to the remainder of the slightly congealed bacon, and reverted to the problem of getting her luggage out of the house. ‘Merci, dieu.
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