But ere the words could find utterance, her maternal tenderness overcame her indignation; and, sinking upon her knees, she extended her arms over her child. “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. Men do not understand constancy as women do. It was really most vivid, most vivid! You seemed to be slipping and just going to tumble and holding on. Wood trembled.
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