" "Wood!" exclaimed Trenchard,—"of Wych Street?" "The same. The Lord have mercy upon you!" This ceremony concluded, the calvacade was again put in motion. “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. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. Apparently she was always doomed to weep when she talked to her father.
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