“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. No matter how swiftly he pursued this riddle, he could not bring it to a halt. Quilt's manner, indeed, was that of a man endeavouring to muster up sufficient resolution for the commission of some desperate crime. My Mom is hell bent on having the biggest, most beautiful house in the neighborhood, my college education be damned.
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