There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. Nor, indeed, did she want to refuse. Her father—man of rock—had never needed her, whereas Hoddy, even if he did not love her, would always be needing her. . . " "It is life. It was in the quiet streets and squares toward Oxford Street that it first came into her head disagreeably that she herself was being followed. The comtesse always felt Madame Valade to be not of her class, of course.
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