Anna came back into the sitting-room with a little sigh of relief. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. She then dried her eyes, and laying her child gently upon the floor, knelt down beside him. You will have to tell me. " "A child!" thought Wood; it must be the fugitive Darrell. Imagination, coloured by the obscurity, peopled the air with phantoms.
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