There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. Valade, who was standing by her chair, glancing around the packed pink-papered saloon with a heavy frown on his face, was a thickset man of coarse, reddened feature, with a discontented air. “I won’t pretend,” he said, “that this is an accident. Her knees almost sank beneath her as she raised the latch of the front door and looked out. A hand of iron fell upon the scowling young man’s shoulder.
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