It resembled Mardi Gras, and she thought disdainfully of New Orleans. “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. "How?" cried her brother, starting. I may tell him, at any rate, that you will see him?” “I shall like to see him,” Anna answered.
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