Her name was Rhea. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. “That thing’s going on,” she told herself. This time she was indeed beaten. ‘But tell me this instead. He had, however, planned brilliant careers for his two sons, and, with a certain human amount of warping and delay, they were pursuing these. “I don’t see there’s any getting away from the fact that you and I love each other,” he said, slowly.
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