“There is my aunt,” she said. They sold him the whisky. “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. The tears were streaming down her face, her voice was thick with sobs. "No," replied Jonathan, moodily. “Now I’ll have what I want from you, wife. I want to get away—to go to London.
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