" "Do not talk thus, dear mother," returned Jack, gazing anxiously at her pale countenance, "or I shall not be able to quit you. "Mr. “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’ve wanted you—always. “Sure, I guess so. "And I," muttered Jack. The man pulled up. I want him as my friend.
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