. I could not have spoken to her. "How very like it is!" "Not so strange, surely," laughed Thames, "that a picture should resemble the person for whom it's intended. “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 guess. The silence of Canton at night was sinister, for none could prophesy what form of mob might suddenly boil out. It is she that I must see.
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