He was more like a man who had left his bed in the middle of convalescence. Do you recall the night she showed you the face in the locket? Do you remember how she said—'If only my mother had lived'? Did you ever see anything more tender or beautiful?" "I remember. "Go to the pump, Nab," he said, when this was done, "and fill a pail with water. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo.
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