The agony on the sands now ceased to puzzle her. Now, abruptly, they were real again, though very distant, and she had come to say farewell to them across one sundering year. “MY DEAR FATHER,” she wrote,—“I have been thinking hard about everything since I was sent to this prison. "Your enemy!" she returned imperfectly comprehending him. I made Hainault’s acquaintance, stood him drinks, lent him money. Nothing at all.
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