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There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. As Jack appeared to be sinking fast, his fetters were removed, his own clothes were returned to him, and he was allowed a mattress and a scanty supply of bed-linen. “Dear friend,” she said, “do not magnify me into a physiological problem. “It is not, of course, a pleasant subject of conversation for you or for me, yet I think I may venture to suggest to you that your sister’s—er—indiscretions—have reached a point which makes a separation between you almost a necessity.
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