“Serves you right if I’d cracked your skull. Nothing, however, could be discerned, except the crumbling brickwork. “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. And, yet, I don't know. She would come and sit cross-legged just beyond the bamboo curtain and silently watch him at work.
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