She flew up from her stool and faced the door. “He’s a Fellow of the Royal Society, and he can’t be much over thirty,” said Miss Klegg. There was something very wrong. “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. Girls screamed in chorus. “Yes. ” “Right!” he said, and hesitated, and then got up and went into the preparationroom.
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