“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. ’ ‘You mean the bookroom, miss. To escape one phase of loneliness she had plunged into another, so vast that her courage sometimes faltered. Here she walked more slowly, looking constantly at the notices in the shop windows. How much Mary knew is a mystery.
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