She had tasted freedom now, and so far she had not felt the need of protection. The curtain tinkled as her head brushed it, but he neither saw nor heard. Where's the dining room? And, say, can I have some eggs? This jam-tea breakfast gets my goat. “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.
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