But when all was over, a sorrowful calm succeeded, and, if not free from grief, she was tranquil. “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. “I am sorry,” he said slowly. ” “And the man stands as the master at the mouth of the den. ’ Melusine turned her head. I have—run away. He would know her address to-morrow.
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