The two friends contrasted strikingly with each other. Michelle and her father sat in the audience, Diane having chosen to stay home to prepare dinner. Even in his fevered hours, so the girl had said, his tongue had not betrayed him. “I am very glad to hear you say it,” he repeated, and refrained from further inquiry. I met her when we were both very young, as young as you are. The boy she had loved was gone. ‘This journey I do not like,’ she said more loudly. His face turned a dark crimson. “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. As to his mother, I've no pity for her.
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