M. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. Fifty sent home. Through no fault of her own. She could not resist enduing persons she met with the noble attributes of the fictional characters. "I can do without it," muttered Jack. I was worried. " "I cannot repent,—I cannot pray," replied Jack, recovering his hardened demeanour. You have watched all the uncouth creations of my brain come sprawling out upon the canvas, and besides, we have been companions.
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