Little did I imagine at the time that it was my own father to whom he referred. I am used, you understand, to guard my secret. “What is the good of pretending?” she said. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. " "Only three days," reiterated the widow, "three short short days,—and then all is over. " "What time is it?" inquired Jack.
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