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But she did not know what he knew, that it would always be rolling up, enlivened by suggestion, no matter how trifling. For a moment he did not recognize Annabel. “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. ” She paused. I have brought disgrace upon you, and I haven’t been the right sort of wife at all. ‘She won’t like it,’ prophesied the captain gloomily.
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