“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. But only inside, you understand, that one cannot see it. I consented to become Mrs. Sheppard, and neither deserve nor desire your thanks. I did think it could be done. You are your own Heaven and your own Hell, Lucy. ‘What’s more, I wouldn’t blame her. In the grate were some charred fragments of a marriage certificate. You are without sense and not sympathique in the least. But this is not sufficient. ‘Hilary is a darling.
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