Would you tell her … now?" his eyes flaming with mockery. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. Meysey Hill—never your wife. But that was soon put right, and she walked out into London with a peculiar exaltation of mind, an exaltation that partook of panic and defiance, but was chiefly a sense of vast unexampled release. ‘Don’t tell me. “Well, I have said what I had to say, stumblingly and badly, and baldly.
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