The calvacade was now put slowly in motion. ‘But it is entirely myself,’ she exclaimed aloud. Certainly, there wasn't a thing in the pockets. Keeping hold of the doorhandle, she turned slowly. In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. "Is it indeed you, or am I dreaming?" "You're not dreaming, mother," he answered.
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