“Thank you. " "What gives you that idea?" "Well, we could find no letter of credit, no letters, no labels in his clothes—not a single clew to his real identity. “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. "Well, good night, Mr. It was really very nice of you, but to-morrow you will laugh at it as I do now. " "I'd rather lie here for ever, than be indebted to you for my freedom," returned Thames.
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