There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. He saw that his words were falling upon dull ears. His glasses were gone. Jonathan stepped behind a curtain. At last some anodyne formed itself from these exercises, and, with eyelashes wet with such feeble tears as only three-o’clock-in-the-morning pathos can distil, she fell asleep. . Rhea laughed and lunged for the broadsword that Sebastian had carelessly left lying on the ground.
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