He turned irresolutely to the table upon which lay the scattered leaves of his old manuscripts. “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. The villagers were thronging to church. Indeed, I've heard him say that, but for his wife, he would shelter her under his own roof. These desperadoes had been the most active in demolishing the coach, and now, being supported by the rabble, they audaciously approached the very portals of the ancient Hall.
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