It is better to face the truth. By this time Capes’ hair had bleached nearly white, and his skin had become a skin of red copper shot with gold. But why didn't you let me know they were coming. “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. He started a dozen stories, but they all ended in the waste-basket.
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