2. “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. It doesn't annoy me; it only disturbs me. Once before—but that had been different. He has helped me out of scrapes though, no end of times. Yes, yes, you do not like the French, and so this English lady here, she is altogether your flesh. ” “I am going to pack my bag,” Anna answered. “It’s his birthday. ” To remain, she felt, was to concede everything. He stood upon the threshold, dangling his eye-glasses in his fingers, stolid, imperturbable, mildly interrogative.
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