It seemed as if all the precautions previously taken were here accumulated. Will you take your old place by Miss Ellicot. Wood. Your time isn't come yet. " Ruth had read from page to page in "The Child's Garden of Verse," generally unfamiliar to the admirers of Stevenson. “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.
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