For whom had its sharp point been intended? Valade? Or perhaps his wife now that the girl had word of their marriage. ‘His wife? Pah!’ ‘You’re saying she is not his wife?’ ‘I am saying nothing. But that was soon put right, and she walked out into London with a peculiar exaltation of mind, an exaltation that partook of panic and defiance, but was chiefly a sense of vast unexampled release. I believe I’m in love. The policy of this step was immediately apparent. “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. He is extremely old—forty at least—and he has a belly excessively fat.
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