Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth. And my wife won’t live with me for reasons that I think most women would consider sound. Do you see the time?” “I may come and see you?” Ennison asked, as his hand touched hers. “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.
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