’ ‘Wouldn’t you?’ ‘In Valade’s place, with so much at stake—and more perhaps than he thought, for if he goes to the lawyers he’s bound to find out about this house—’ Hilary said it for him. "Write as I dictate," he cried, placing a pen in the jailer's hand and a pistol to his ear. “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. Had to. “It might be a policeman borrowing the driveway and looking out for speeders.
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