“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. We haven’t. The air might be cool, but half an hour without head-gear was an invitation to sunstroke. The entrance was concealed between two huge boulders within a clump of trees, and was now so overgrown that no one who did not know of its existence could ever hope to find it. ‘Ah, trying to be the young hero, I take it, which is why he near got hisself killed. “You mean to follow her. “Mike, that’s not even remotely funny. "Oh lord! I hope not.
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