“Like a stab. The Bitchster strikes again. “I cannot but conclude,” he said, “that your errand involved the recital to my wife of some trouble in which you find yourself. I get my driver's license tomorrow. Already Cosette was her chosen friend. “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. A chill rain thrummed against the sides of John’s car, having slowed from deluge to steady patter, the snow was 158 dissolved where it lay.
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