” He held out his hand obediently. It's exactly like a miniature I have in my pocket. “Go on,” he said. A fortnight passed, then a month. It isn’t sentiment but it’s horse sense. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. ‘It weren’t my wish, miss, I can tell you that. ‘Not here. I was always told my mother died the day I was born.
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