There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. He had not had time to aim the pistol. He moved her dress from her shoulders and off her torso. There was a new softness in her eyes, a hesitation, a timidity about her manner which was almost pathetic. Never before had any human being kissed her lips. And the woollen-draper departed.
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