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I don't know how to explain it," said Spurlock, "but music hits women queerly. “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. His only warning was a gleam of silver in the faint spill of light from the house above. She decided to go out into the London afternoon again and get something to eat in an Aerated Bread shop or some such place, and perhaps find a cheap room for herself.
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