“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. They always get back together. That is why I was so anxious to leave Paris. She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear. I don’t conceal it. Upon this grateful animal she lavished that affection which was subtly repelled by its lawful object.
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