“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. Dieu du ciel, but where was Gerald? On the move again, she found herself standing before one of the mirrors, gazing into her own countenance without seeing it. It was not without considerable demur and delay on the part of Sharples that the carpenter and his companion could gain admittance to the round-house. To-night all London believes that he was your husband. From now on, you’re going to listen to me for a change.
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