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 terrors and anxieties of the last few months seemed to have fallen from her, to have passed away like an ugly dream, dismissed with a shudder even from the memory. The unpleasant oily chill of fever overtook her body, and she watched in horror as Sebastian carried her to his bed on his shoulder like a sack of flour. " "Ay, but it is strange how much it resembles somebody for whom it's not intended. The aunt laughed. Mr.
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