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 much does he know?’ Without waiting for a reply, she turned narrowed eyes on Gerald. “Certainly. But I trusted to that ring of yours. I love some one else. They joined the rabble of aspiring James Deans in torn jeans and bomber jackets and girls with Clairol black hair smoking clove cigarettes. There was no one stirring in the flats. “Annabel,” she said, “you are my sister, or I would bid you take the flowers if you care for them, and leave the room.
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