Doesn’t matter a bit to me. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. Mind, I am anticipating events. It had rained during the night, and the patch-work pavement was greasy with mud. It belonged to his father, and was worn by him on the night he was murdered. But her heart kept on sinking. You understand.
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