“I MUST speak to you,” he said. Sir John and Annabel seated themselves at one of them, and the proprietor himself, a small dark-visaged man, radiant with smiles, came hurrying up, followed by a waiter. “Tiffany’s?” He looked at her comically. He pressed the long shapely hand warmly in his. “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. ” 243 She felt a mixture of embarrassment, humiliation, and pride well up in her cheeks, flushing them.
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