There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. “You were really at Moulton House,” she exclaimed penitently. Parbleu, but must she do this all through the house? Evidently she must, for not only could she not properly see the paintings and portraits that hung on the walls, but she was in imminent danger of bumping into the sheet-shrouded furniture. The fatal shower, from which he and his little charge escaped uninjured, had stricken his assailant and precipitated him into the boiling gulf.
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