His mind was filled briefly with psychic images of a charnel house that danced like a spider in his head. Good-bye, aunt. . “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. “My sister,” she murmured, “is so independent. ’ ‘Ah. "I can't tell you!" she replied, blushing deeply, and clinching her little hand as tightly as possible; "it's a secret!" "I'll soon find it out, then," he returned, playfully forcing the paper from her grasp.
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