Hetty, looking out of the window—she always smoked her after-breakfast cigarette at the window for the benefit of the less advanced section of Morningside Park society—and trying not to raise objections, saw Miss Stanley going down toward the shops. The white cloth was instantly dyed with crimson; but, regardless of this, Jonathan continued his murderous assault. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. The halls are on the lookout for something new. I knew it. At once. Nobody could possibly find him now.
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