” “We are,” said Ann Veronica. She could not bear the shame of it. “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. I begin to understand Jane Austen and chintz covers and decency and refinement and all the rest of it. “I am only sorry that I did not ask you to go with me. ’ Looking round, she found the little coterie of soldiers crowded into the passage behind them.
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