There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. He looked at her, hurt. For a time they were very difficult. Sooner or later we’ll certainly do something to clean those prisons you told me about—limewash the underside of life. His French is better than mine, so he knew exactly what he was handling. She always managed to get back to the bungalow before he did. For a time it really seemed all-sufficient to her that she should love.
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