One glance through the window at that picturesque head had been sufficient. When Jack came to speak of Jonathan Wild, his countenance fell. ‘I hope I do not understand you. “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. We just hit against each other, and here we are flying off at a tangent, a little surprised at what we are doing, all our principles abandoned, and tremendously and quite unreasonably proud of ourselves.
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