There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. Now I have done something for which you might be pardoned if you did kill me. There's something human about you now. “I have loved you,” he was saying, “ever since you sat on that gate and talked. "Gracious Heaven!—is she the inmate of a mad-house?" "She is, Sir," answered the woollen-draper, sadly, "driven there by her son's misconduct.
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