Anyhow, ten minutes after I get to work I'll be rumpling it. But if he speaks—I fear what he may tell. “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. You hear what I say, Quilt?" he added, looking at Jack. "Thank you; but I've a pocket full of water-chestnuts. They are long gone.
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