There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. Not that he deliberately courted danger; it was rather the searcher, seeking analysis, the why and wherefore of this or that invading emotion. So she said: “I won’t come home. And I’m off to America, and if my steamer goes to the bottom of the Atlantic I’ll thank the Lord for it. She slid her cheek down the tweed sleeve of his coat. “I’ll try to stop by. “I wonder if there are any good women really. ‘Soldier of fortune. Try and let him never regret it.
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