“You remember our first meeting?” “Yes,” he answered hoarsely. . Good night. As O'Higgins signed the hotel register, his keen glance took in the latest signatures. Apparently she was always doomed to weep when she talked to her father. There were the burnt papers still in the grate. She had nothing to say for herself. "I'm at your mercy, Poll," rejoined Kneebone, abjectly. The hand that had been clenched lay open, relaxed; and upon the palm he saw her mother's locket.
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