and Mrs. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. Ruth met him in the hall as he was following his family into the dining room. McClintock could not browbeat him, storm as he might. “We are both of us trenching upon forbidden ground,” she said. His tongue was more ready, his wit more keen than usual. The Oriental has no equivalent. It is her duty to tell me, and I would not have her think that I had been trying to work upon your sympathies to learn her secrets.
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