“Go on!” she commanded. Part of her even believed that her mother would have wanted her to stop feeling guilty and to be happy. I—well, I borrowed Anna’s name. “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. “Perhaps you will help me shuffle?” Ann Veronica did, and also assisted nimbly with the arrangements of the rows of eight with which the struggle began.
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