“We will take it then,” he said, “that you have refused or ignored one request I have made you this morning. Lord, I am sixty. “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 soon as he was gone, Jonathan went up stairs to the audience-chamber; and, sitting down, appeared for some time buried in reflection. She was silent.
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