There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. “How did you find me?” He asked. At Anna’s words she seemed suddenly to stiffen. It was still profoundly dark; but the wind, which had begun to blow with some violence, chased the clouds rapidly across the heavens, and dispersed the vapours hanging nearer the earth. She made a few protests, a few excuses for her action in accepting him, a few lame explanations, but he did not heed them or care for them.
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