From McClintock's came an infernal tinkletinkle, tump-tump! There was no composing with such a sound hammering upon the ear. “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. Honestly, I never did. Mr. Montague Hill was taken for the millionaire once or twice, and I suppose it flattered his vanity. I need you every day.
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