There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. “No!” he said aloud at last. Mr. “But why,” he said in the gasping voice of one subduing an agony, and looked at her from under a pain-wrinkled brow, “why did you not tell me this before?” “I didn’t know—I thought I might be able to control myself. Gently she raised his head and withdrew the coat from under the pillow.
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