“Dear John,” she whispered. "Look at him!" Ruth looked. I only seen her when she come with that Sister Martha. "He has quite the air of one. “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. Running his hand carefully over it in search of the lock, he perceived to his dismay that it was fastened on the other side.
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