" "Proceed, Sir," said Trenchard, breathing hard. ” “Good God!” said Mr. “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. “And where,” he asked, “are my rivals?” “Deserters,” she answered, laughing. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you so badly,’ he said, still meeting her eyes, unaware that his hold about her hand had tightened a little.
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