“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. Without a word or a gesture, the Wastrel turned and staggered forth, out of the orbit of these two, having been thrust into it for a single purpose already described. ” “It would suit me. Shamefaced curiosities began to come back into her mind, thinly disguised as literature and art. He was plainly attired in a riding-dress and boots of the period, and wore a hanger by his side. Anna hailed a bus.
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