“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. Your boyfriend. As he entered the shop, a tall portly personage advanced to meet him, whom he at once recognised as the present proprietor. It did not matter in the least what name the young fellow was travelling under; all James Boyle O'Higgins wanted was the letter H. My son wanted to marry a woman of thirty in a tobacconist’s shop. EPOCH THE SECOND.
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