There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. ’ She drew a heavy breath. ‘Something wrong, madame?’ Her fan came up swiftly, hiding the lower part of her face. Lucy arranged her hair as Michelle had taught her instead of combing it out. The big gray spaces of London, the shop-lit, greasy, shining streets, had become very remote; the biological laboratory with its work and emotions, the meetings and discussions, the rides in hansoms with Ramage, were like things in a book read and closed. “I am not in need of any.
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