"Humph!" exclaimed Jonathan, doubtfully. "Suppose he does. “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. ’ ‘Oh, don’t I? What do you have under all those petticoats, a holster?’ ‘But yes, and they are empty. He could not contain his satisfaction, but chuckled, and rubbed his hands with delight. But one day he came to me.
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