As he stood upon the bridge, he held down the light, and looked into the profound abyss. “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 mean to,” she replied. Never had she seemed to him so much like Anna. No matter what they do, always someone to bolster them up, to lend them money, and to coddle them. “You will go and see her,” he begged. Them young prigs is all alike.
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