Paintings sold off the walls. "Precisely. “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. We middle-aged fools and we old fools can no longer dream. His tongue was more ready, his wit more keen than usual. I wanted you to know. "Yes, Auntie! And to date you have cost me precisely sixteen thousand dollars— hard earned, every one of them. Humph.
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