“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. Both arm-chairs had been moved a little so as to face each other on either side of the fender, and in the circular glow of the green-shaded lamp there lay, conspicuously waiting, a thick bundle of blue and white papers tied with pink tape. His head was small and bullet-shaped, and he did not wear a wig, but had his sleek black hair cut off closely round his temples. PELLISSIER. Always! I don’t believe there is any strong natural affection at all between parents and growing-up children.
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