“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. There's good stuff in him, if one could find the way to dig it out. She had done forever with the Age of Chivalry, and her own base adaptations of its traditions to the compromising life. Somewhere she had read that it was the proper thing to do and that men liked to be alone with their tobacco. It was her past now, not Annabel’s.
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