“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. "So you're writing under a nom de plume, eh?" said McClintock, holding out the letter. Anna stepped back at once with a little gasp of relief. When I was younger, I was very sick with a deadly flu. I’ll be ready in a moment. It was Ramage, the occupant of the big house at the end of the Avenue.
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