“Oh, dammit!” he remarked, “dammit!” with great bitterness as he faced it. 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 room behind was another small antechamber, presumably linking the back rooms. She wore a black satin dress, a little shiny at the seams, a purposeless bow of white tulle at the back of her neck, and a huge chatelaine. “You know,” he muttered, “you know quite well that your troubles are far more likely to weigh upon me than my own. Mr.
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