“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. A little love from him would be enough. I can’t imagine Londoners—particularly interested in me. “What’s odd?” “Oh, everything!” She shivered, and went to the fire and poked it. I don't know what you have done; I don't want to know now. The chain, which had been partially cut through, snapped near the staple. Where was the harm in letting her go? She could not get far. Why? Here was a curtain indeed.
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