“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. Stanley pointed to the letter with a pipe he had drawn from his jacket pocket. "I was at Tyburn. Stop it!” Anna stepped back bewildered, but the man held out his arms to her. The unfortunate prisoner, meanwhile, who was not informed of the respite, languished in his horrible dungeon, and, at the expiration of three weeks, became so seriously indisposed that it was feared he could not long survive. As if he read her thought, he spoke it aloud.
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